Don't Fear The Reaper
by Brilliant Brunette Beauty
Summary: Damian Wayne is a Robin still trying to prove his worth. Dee is a waitress struggling to survive. Two paths that should never cross. But a serial killer lurking in the East End of Gotham has other ideas for these two...
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is my first time trying my hand at a canon character x OC romance, so please be gentle with me. Also be aware that only this chapter is going to be in third person narrative. The rest will be in first person.**

**Enjoy! :)**

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Anyone who works for a restaurant, café, pizzeria, or any other food service industry will tell you that Saturday nights are absolutely hellish. People bustle in and out all night long, staying as long as they like and being as loud as they desire, leaving the workers scrambling to seat and serve everyone before anyone gets the chance to open their mouths and complain about the slow service. It's crowded, loud, and busy as all hell. Even a café in the bad part of town is besieged by patrons. It's the absolute last place on earth a teen wants to be at on what should be a fun weekend.

The tired brunette behind the counter rushes to hand yet another impatient customer their chicken salad sandwich and Diet Coke, ignoring the scowl on the woman's face from having to wait in line so long. It seems no matter what she and her coworkers do, it's never enough for the ungrateful people they wait on. Oh well, thus is the food service industry. She's not about to complain. Keeping this job is too important to her.

"You have a nice night, ma'am," she recites instinctively with a tight, forced smile as she takes the customer's $20 bill. The small, dark-haired woman gives a small grunt that the teenage worker guesses is supposed to be a 'thank you'. Eh, that's better than what she usually gets. At least _this _customer isn't throwing the diet soda back in her face. Yesterday's shift certainly was an eventful one. On the bright side, now she knows how to get soft drinks out of her clothes.

"Dee!" a gruff voice calls from the back. The teenager turns her head away from her angry customers, watching gratefully as one of her coworkers approaches in uniform, gesturing for her to step away from the counter.

"End of your shift, sweetheart," he says with a small smile. "Go home and get some shut eye. You look like hell." She smiles back, stepping back from the counter with a sigh of tired relief.

_How long _has_ it been since I slept? _Dee thinks, running a hand through her long brown hair. She shakes the thought off as she heads to the back, taking off her apron in exchange for the ratty old coat that hangs next to the back door and a bag that rests near it. However much sleep she's been lacking, she can make up for it soon. Sundays are Dee's days off, and she plans to sleep the day away. She deserves it.

"See ya, Ronnie," she calls out to one of the more friendly cooks as she shrugs on her coat. The red-headed man waves back to her with a spatula still in hand.

"Have a nice night, Dee. Stay safe out there!"

She rolls her eyes with a playful grin on her face as she walks out the door.

"Don't I always?" she calls back right before she leaves, earning a laugh from her friend. She shuts the door behind her and steps out into the bitterly cold streets of Gotham armed with only a thin, hand-me-down coat to protect her from the winter chill. But she doesn't mind much. The cold is a welcome relief from the overly heated atmosphere of the café she works at. Besides, she values that small portion of time when walking home from work. It's one of the only times she sees her neighborhood seem mildly… peaceful. Quiet, even. Of course, she could walk a few blocks over and see a few hookers no older than her picking up johns, but that's just life around here. At least she gets those few moments of peace.

Spurned on by the sound of an argument going down in the alley near her, Dee clutches her bag tighter against her body and scampers home, blissfully unaware that her actions have set a series of events in motion.

Dee's carefully structured life is about to get a whole lot messier.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Thank you guys for the feedback! The fact that I even managed to get 4 reviews when I posted a vague first chapter AND this is an OC story astounds me. So thank you all for reviewing, following, and favoriting!**

**So this chapter is in first person narrative, and I have yet to decide if I want to switch back and forth between Dee and Damian's POVs or if I want to stick to Dee. If you have a suggestion about that I'd be happy to hear it.**

**Well, I hope you enjoy!**

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There's nothing harder in this world than dragging my lazy butt out of my warm bed on a Sunday afternoon. After at least 10 hours of rest and another few hours of reading while still snuggled under my covers, I usually head to my kitchen while still in my t-shirt, lounge pants, and fuzzy socks to grab a snack from my fridge before retreating back to the dark cave that I call a room. That was the extent of my plans for today. That is, until I remembered that I had already made plans with my friend today. And I'm not one to break a promise, unfortunately.

Remind me again why I even bother to make friends when I have to give up my free days just to see them.

Shrugging on my coat overtop a flannel shirt, I slide out my bedroom and carefully step into the living room, trying to keep footfalls as silent as possible in case my mom made her way home early this morning. Sure enough, I see a large lump on the couch, shrouded in covers with dark hair hanging down, just barely scraping against the floor. She's out cold.

Of course. She always is when she comes home.

For a moment, I'm tempted to try and wake her up and tell her where I'm going, but I think better of it. Knowing my mother, I could spend well into Monday morning trying to rouse her. I'll just let her get up on her own.

I take a few steps into the small kitchen attached to the living room, grabbing a pad of paper and scribbling down a note:

_Ma,_

_Went down to the café to meet Jess. There's chicken in the fridge. Be home soon._

_-Dee_

Not exactly true, but what my mom doesn't know won't hurt her.

Tip-toeing back into the living room, I place the note on the coffee table next to my mom's soundly sleeping form. She looks so peaceful in sleep, so much younger than when she's awake. I feel bad about leaving her like this with just some chicken in the fridge, but I have no choice.

Lola will have my head if I cancel on her.

_Again._

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The streets downtown are oddly abandoned today instead of bustling with life as they usually are around this time. It's so close to nightfall that you would think there would at least be some hookers picking up some of the leftover johns that didn't make their rounds last night or some teens experimenting with weed. After all, it's still the weekend. But I only see one high-heeled girl in the distance talking to a guy in a gray pickup truck, as well as a gangly looking 20-something dude leaning against the brick wall of the old bakery, looking high as a kite with a big grin plastered on his face.

Ah, I never get tired of the beautiful scenery down here in the East End.

"There you are!" I hear from behind me. Turning around, I see Lola approaching in her signature studded leather jacket and dark skinny jeans with her dirty blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun. Old makeup still paints her face, only slightly smudged. Her usual Sunday look. Somehow she always manages to look better than me, even when she's a hot mess.

Which is basically every day except Saturday and Friday, come to think of it.

"I haven't seen you in like 5 years," she groans, bumping my shoulder with her own. I roll my eyes and push back at her lightly.

"It's been a few weeks, dude," I argue with a smile on my face. She shrugs, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me away from the edge of the sidewalk.

"Same thing."

I chuckle, allowing her to lean her arm on my shoulder. I have to admit that I feel slightly guilty about bailing on Lola constantly these past few weeks. I'm one of her only friends, practically her family. Her _only_ family, really. But I've been busy balancing work, school, and taking care of my mom. I barely find time to breathe, much less see friends. I don't know what a social life feels like. And she has a job of her own to attend to. We're both bad at keeping up contact.

"How'd you make out last night?" I ask, leaning against the brick wall behind me. She flashes a smirk and reaches into her shirt, pulling a few $20s out of her bra. Lola is a real class act.

"Not bad," she admits. "Could have been better, but I've had worse nights. 'Cept one guy tried to get the full experience for $20. Do I _look _that cheap?"

She shakes her head and stuffs her wages back into her bra, adjusting her tight top. I briefly wonder if she knows why she hasn't been getting much business these past few nights, but I assume she knows. The talk on the street has been deafening lately. There's no way she hasn't heard it too. I'm not the one getting into a stranger's car each night, and even _I _know to be suspicious.

"Are you being careful?" I ask her, allowing some concern to show through. She rolls her eyes at my cautiousness.

"Who are you, my mother? I'm _always _careful, Dee. You know that."

I shake my head, wondering if she knows what's going on and just doesn't care. She has a tendency to avoid problems like they're the bubonic plague.

To be fair, I have the same bad habit.

"You know what I mean," I insist. "Haven't you read the newspaper lately? They _still_ haven't found that creep, and they found another girl just two days ago. The death toll us up to 10 now. Most of them were prostitutes, and I know for a fact that you ran out of pepper spray last week."

She rolls her eyes, groaning like a teenager who just got reprimanded by a parent. It's hard to believe that _she's _the older one out of the two of us by a year. It seems like I'm always acting like a mother hen, reminding her to take care of herself.

"I'll get some more first thing tomorrow, _Mom_," she promises. I snort a little and nudge her with my shoulder as a random thought occurs to me; I'm the mother I never had.

Go figure.

"I'm holding you to that. Until then, I'm sticking close to you whether you like it or not."

She raises her eyebrows in disbelief.

"I'm seventeen, you know. I don't need to be babysat. I've been doing this long enough to know which guys I should avoid."

She shakes her head at me and pulls a cigarette and lighter out of her pocket, lighting it up. I wrinkle my nose at the overpowering smell of the smoke. Lola knows about my disdain for smoking and tries not to do it in front of me, but when she's nervous or on edge, she can't help it. Just the fact that she pulled out a pack tells me that she's more nervous about this psycho running around than she's letting on.

"C'mon, Lo," I urge. "I'll just hang around and make sure no creeps pull you into a white van. Just until they catch this guy."

She chuckles at bit at that, hitting my shoulder lightly and taking another drag of her cigarette. I move my head out of the way in time for her to blow out so the putrid smell doesn't go up my nostrils. I'm like a school health teacher when it comes to smoking.

"The answer is _no, _Dee. I can take care of myself."

Somehow I knew that was going to be her answer.

"Fine," I relent. "Just don't blame me when you end up on the evening news."

Lola lets out a throaty laugh, some left over smoke drifting out of her mouth.

"You know what they say; it doesn't matter what they're saying as long as they're talking about you."

I know she's trying to make light of this mostly for my sake, but I still can't help but be worried about her. I'm that nervous, overprotective friend who inserts myself into my friends' business and gets jokingly called 'mom' all the time. I can't help it. After all the people I've seen utterly destroyed by these streets, I'm not going to take any chances with the people I care about.

Especially considering the number of people who fall into that category is dwindling.

"Just be careful, okay?" I tell her. She nods, being semi-serious for once in her seventeen years of life.

"If it makes you feel better, I promise I'll do my best to be more cautious _and _I'll make sure I always have my pepper spray on me. Okay?"

I nod hesitantly, not sure what Lola's definition of 'cautious' is.

"Deal."

I'm sure Lola can take care of herself. After all, she's survived so far, and killers in the East End are as common as catching a cold. No one's gotten to her yet. That's a good sign, right?

Besides, I'm sure she won't notice if I _just so happen_ to be hanging around the café on the nights she's working…

If this serial killer doesn't get to me, Lola will.

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**A/N: Like always, feedback is gladly appreciated, and I hope you liked this chapter!**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you all for the positive feedback! You guys make me unbelievably happy. :)**

**I also want to thank IndigoElle for helping me figure out what I wanted as far as POVs go. Also, her writing is freaking amazing so you should go check it out. **

**I have yet to finish Unfortunate Reminder, but your reviews reminded me that it's on my 'to read' list!**

**So, I will be switching up POVs between Dee and Damian's every other chapter (or at least that's my plan for now) because the direction I hope to take this story in definitely requires his point of view.**

**With that all said, please enjoy!**

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**Damian's POV**

"But _Father_," I whine, following closely behind his tall, looming figure as he marches upstairs.

"This is not up for debate," he interrupts, not even bothering to turn and face me. It's infuriating. Do I not deserve to be addressed directly like a regular human being? Am I not worthy of respect?

"Why will you not listen to me?" I demand. "I have already told you, I can handle this case. Or do you not trust me enough?"

Father turns back to look at me at last, a fire burning behind his similarly cobalt colored eyes. It's a type of fire that usually gets his opponents to back down, but not me. He should know better than to use that pathetic intimidation tactic one _me, _his own flesh and blood. I inherited the skill of intimidation. I _perfected _it. No amount of 'bat-glares' in the world will keep me from bringing up this subject again and again until he relents and gives in to my demands.

"The answer is _no_, Damian," he repeats, his voice firm enough to effectively shoot down my question. "This is a case that I'd rather do alone. It doesn't require much field work and I'd like to keep you as far away from crimes of this nature as possible."

I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest in a defensive stance. Though his heart is in the right place, his logic is terribly skewed, and I am not afraid to call him out on it.

"I'm seventeen years old, Father," I argue back. "You no longer have to 'protect' me from rapists-turned-murderers. I know of their existence. My nonexistent innocence is already tainted. And this particular suspect has already displayed a fondness for teenage girls only. I'm not at risk."

His face remains as hard and as cold as stone, completely unfazed. I can tell before he even bothers to reply that the answer remains a strong 'no'. It only proves to anger me further. Does he even bother to listen to me at all? Or does he tune me out as soon as I open my mouth?

"I do not need help on this case. I can do it alone easily. _End of story._"

I'm unwilling to admit defeat already. I _won't _admit defeat that quickly.

"But Father –,"

"You cannot get me to change my mind on this matter. You are not helping me on this and that is final. Pushing the issue won't help."

With that, our battle has officially ended with Father emerging the victor. I let out a low, barely audible growl, knowing he will most likely sacrifice patrol for a few nights to get this high risk case solved as quickly as possible. I think foregoing patrol in the name of a case more suited for Gotham PD is positively useless, but it's not like my opinion on the matter means anything to him. No matter what the fight is about, no matter how many good points I bring up, no matter how well prepared I am to make my case, it seems to all fall on deaf ears. I barely have a voice in this household. It is unbelievably frustrating.

"_Fine_," I hiss through gritted teeth, doing my best to keep my anger from bubbling up and spilling out through my mouth in the form of scathing words. Father's face softens from its original stony state, like he's taking pity on me. It only succeeds in souring my mood even further. There is little on this earth I hate more than pity.

"Take some time for yourself," he suggests. "Go play in the park with Titus or see a movie with that redheaded friend of yours… Colin, correct?"

A scowl forms on my face.

"Are you denying my help on this case because you want me to _get out more_?" I ask, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. I resent the sudden intrusion into my social life, or lack thereof. I'm too _busy _to maintain something as trivial as a close friendship. They're a pain, anyways.

Though I must admit, I do not mind Colin's company…

"No," Father insists, trying to placate me. "I'm just making a suggestion. I'm going to be extremely busy until this case is wrapped up and I don't want you to go stir crazy from being cooped up in here all day."

So I was correct. He's momentarily suspending patrol. I have at least a few days to mope around the Manor doing absolutely nothing.

Wonderful.

"Do not concern yourself with what I do in my spare time," I snap harsher than I intended. "I will find a way to entertain myself."

He opens his mouth slightly, as if he feels like he should push on and say more, but he thinks better of it and shakes his head.

"Very well," he murmurs, signaling that he's given up on this conversation. "Have a good night, Damian."

I give him a curt nod.

"You as well, Father."

With that, I turn sharply on my heels and march upstairs and into my room, shutting the door behind me and throwing myself down onto my small, single bed. My face sinks into the fluffy pillow and I bite back the urge to scream into it out of frustration. This isn't the first time Father has barred me from patrol, and I doubt it will be the last.

But no matter how many times it has happened over the years we've been partners, I'm always filled with the same, unavoidable feeling. All the pent up aggression and frustration that would usually be burned out of my system during patrol ends up building until it spews from me in uncontrollable ways.

I'm seventeen years old. I've come a long way from the ten year old child my father was tasked with wrangling into submission. I've learned to control myself and the angry undertone that tinges all my emotions. Father _taught _me how to control it. And yet he still doesn't trust me enough to let me go out on even one solo patrol.

_Tt. _

So much for being _partners_.

I sit up on my bed, punching my pillow in rage.

Seven years as partners. Seven goddamn years. And I'm still being treated like an irresponsible ten year old with homicidal tendencies. It isn't right. It isn't _fair_.

I shoot up off my bed, darting out of the room with a mission clear in my mind. If Father doesn't trust me, then I'll just have to prove to him that he can. And what better time to do that than when he's taking one of his frequent, short naps?

I turn the hands on the archaic grandfather clock to 10:47 and swiftly slide down the pole that appears, landing lightly on my feet in the cave. With a smirk pulling at my lips, I walk to my locker and open it, grabbing my uniform and mask.

Why let Father waste weeks tracking this depraved psychopath when I can take him down in one night?

* * *

The East End of Gotham is a putrid wasteland full of junkies, harlots, and gangbangers. Gotham is a concrete Hell in general, but the East End makes the rest of the city seem like Dubai in comparison. From my current location the roof of a small café, I can make out the shapes of a few bodies slumped unconscious against a streetlamp with a dirty, discarded needle lying next to one of their limp arms. I shake my head to myself.

The citizens of the East End are the poster children for the 'Say No To Drugs' campaign.

So far, I have yet to see anyone but male junkies walk past this road, though I know it is a popular spot for prostitutes. They must not be stupid, then. Everyone knows about the killings. They've become impossible to ignore, even for the jaded residents of the East End. It seems all night life for teenage girls has ceased. Everyone is too afraid.

Which means it's doubtful I will catch sight of my target tonight.

I let out a low groan of annoyance. Father is most definitely up from his nap by now, and there is no way he hasn't noticed my absence. I'll be grounded for a week, _if _he is feeling merciful. Unless I can convince him I snuck off to see Colin and conveniently 'forgot' to inform him of my plans beforehand…

It's no use. Father isn't an idiot. He probably checked to see if the uniform was missing. There's no way I'm not grounded.

Which, when patrols are already suspended, really isn't much of a punishment.

I'm just about to jump down onto the awning below, the backdoor to the café opens and floods the alleyway with a bright light and faint, chattering voices. I retreat back into the shadows, looking downwards and waiting for the figure that glides out of the doorway to pass so I can leave.

The light illuminates the person's face, and I can see it's a girl. Just a girl. About my age, maybe younger. I don't give this much more thought as she shuts the door and trudges down the alleyway lazily. I click my tongue in annoyance at her slow pace. The longer I have to wait to get home, the worse my punishment will probably be.

A muffled scream from below takes my mind off my imminent punishment and back to the field.

I peer back down and see two shapes instead of one, the new figure obviously a large man looming over the much smaller girl. I can just barely see his hand covering her mouth as she struggles against him.

I don't give it a second thought as I jump down onto the awning below, sliding off of it and landing on the ground right next to the attempted mugger. But I don't get the chance to grab him and drag him away from the girl.

He's curled up on the ground, holding his face and howling in pain.

It's a tell-tale sign of pepper spray.

My gaze drifts from the scum at my feet to the girl in front of me, breathing clinging onto a can of pepper spray like it's her last life-line. The darkness makes it almost impossible to see the pepper spray in her hand, but the shaking of her hand makes it hard to miss.

She's shaken, no doubt about it. Probably more so from me than from the attempted mugging.

I, on the other hand, am just annoyed.

A swift kick to the attempted mugger's abdomen causes him to curl up into a ball and confirms my suspicions. This scumbag is much too pathetic to be the sophisticated serial killer that has been eluding the authorities for nearly 2 months.

Grabbing the arm of the shaking girl, I drag her out of the alleyway and into the street, ignoring her struggling and her small fist beating against my chest. I can barely even feel it through the Kevlar, though I suspect I'd barely be able to feel it even if I _wasn't _wearing Kevlar.

She's miniscule compared to me.

"Take your hands off me, you asshole!" she protests. "I'll spray you too!"

I roll my eyes at her attempts to be frightening. She really has no idea who I am.

I pull her underneath the lamppost light, my feet swiping against the side of one of the passed out junkies. When her struggling lets up slightly, I let go of her arm, intending to check her for injuries before finally going home. But I don't get so much as a glance at her newly illuminated form before she slaps me across the face. _Hard_.

I think that's the first time a hit from a civilian has ever even stung. Just slightly.

I tilt my head back up, watching her gasp and her eyes widen as she realizes who she's hit, and I finally get a good look at her.

She's tanned skinned, most likely of Hispanic heritage, and her straight, light-brown colored hair hangs down to at least to the middle of her back. Her eyes are hazel in color, and wide with disbelief. An embarrassed blush tinges her full cheeks.

Hm. Not the least attractive girl I've ever seen.

"Oh my god," she gasps out. "Y-You're _Robin_! And I just slapped you!"

Oh gee, and I thought Batman was the detective.

"Oh really?" I ask sardonically. "I didn't notice."

She looks down at her feet, the blush on her cheeks intensifying like the flames to a stove. I narrow my eyes, examining her critically. What about my statement was so blush worthy?

_Tt_. I give up on trying to understand women.

"I guess I should say sorry…" she trails off, rubbing the back of her neck nervously. "But it was your fault for grabbing me. So you kind of had it coming..."

Wait, _what_?

My mouth pops open and I can do nothing but gape at her, taken aback by her bold words. Most people retreat back into a shell once they see me, like I'm some all-powerful force to be feared or a celebrity to be admired. Yet she defends smacking me.

I don't know if I should be annoyed or intrigued.

"I was _trying _to help you," I argue, glaring intently at the bold girl. "That's hardly a reason to assault me."

The girl simply gives me an infuriating eye-roll and crosses her arms over her chest defensively.

"Well in case you didn't notice, I managed just fine without your help," she points out cheekily.

_Who does she think she is?_

"How was _I _supposed to know that?" I hiss, done reasoning with this stubborn girl. Even worse, as soon as the sentence leaves my lips, a smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth. This _amuses _her. My taller stature and my reputation can usually make anyone back down, especially if I snap at them. But this girl is _entertained _by me?

What a strange little creature.

"Well, _Robin_, if you don't mind stepping aside a bit, it's getting late I'd like to make it home in time to finish my homework."

I step to the side, scowling at her from underneath my mask. She sees this and lets out a short laugh that sounds halfway to a very unladylike giggle. Again, I'm split on annoyance and amusement.

I choose annoyance.

She walks past me, turning back to face me at the last second.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Robin," she exaggerates, tipping an imaginary hat to me. I raise my eyebrows, unable to figure out the girl in front of me. But I must admit she's just a bit interesting…

Interesting _and _infuriating.

"Likewise, Miss…"

"Dee," she interjects. "It's not like I'll be seeing you ever again, but just in case you happen to be around the next time I get mugged, call me Dee."

I nod curtly at her.

"Try not to get mugged again on your way home, _Dee_," I reply in a snarky tone before turning back and stalking away in the opposite direction.

I assume that the light laughter slowly fading into the background is the last I will ever hear from this odd girl named Dee.

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**A/N: Did I lose momentum in the second half? I feel like I did.**

**But hey, I worked hard on it, so I like it at least.**

**Please, don't be shy. Tell me what you think! I love to hear from my readers.**

**I hope to update again soon! :)**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm sorry for the long wait, but I finally got a chapter out! Thank you all so much for the positive feedback on this story and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

**Dee's POV**

The smell of smoke is what finally rouses me from an hour long, Friday afternoon nap.

Not the alarm I set before I collapsed, not my mother's soft and sonorous voice calling to me from the living room, but the distinct smell of smoke wafting towards me, invading my senses. My eyes shoot open like the smoke punched me in face instead of tickling my nose.

It takes all of 5 seconds for me to jump out of my bed and barrel out of my open door, stumbling slightly on my way out, prepared for the worst. Of course my mind starts to list all the worst case scenarios, like running into the living room only to find our apartment has gone up in flames and my mom is –

Dead and _not_ just sitting on the couch smoking with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

I sigh in both relief and annoyance, glad my concerns were unfounded but irked by the fact that I overreacted. _Again_. What is this, the 5th time this has happened this month?

"Ma," I groan, sinking down into the chair across from the couch. She raises an eyebrow up at me, feigning innocence.

"What?" she asks in her naturally raspy voice, enhanced by years of chain-smoking. I glare at her, my hazel eyes piercing her bright blue ones. She's not getting off that easy.

"I've asked you before _not _to smoke inside," I reply sternly, like I'm the parent. "Remember last time?"

She chuckles a bit, some leftover puffs of smoke pouring out of the corners of her mouth and her crow's-feet becoming more prominent. I always tell her that her smoking habit is aging her, but she doesn't bother to listen.

Mom has never cared much about her appearance.

"That was an accident and you know it," she defends herself, the corners of her mouth quirked into an amused smile. "It's not like I go around purposefully setting fire to carpets, Deedee."

My shoulders relax a little bit when her nickname for me comes out of her mouth. Her tone is as smooth as silk, and it's able to melt through my stern exterior quicker than a flame thrower through an ice cube. I can never stay stern for too long when it comes to my mother. I hate that she has that power over me. I hate _anyone _having that power over me.

"Just do it outside next time, okay?" I sigh, giving up on this argument. It's not even worth it anymore.

She nods eagerly, her dark curls bouncing on her shoulders.

"Scout's honor," she swears, holding up her hand in a joking way. I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head. I'm happy with the promise for now, but I know very well how this is going to go down. She's going to follow through with her promise for a day, maybe two days tops, and then she's going to slip up again and then I'm going to make her promise to do better next time, which she will, and the cycle repeats. It happens every time, no matter what that promise is about, and I know it's a cycle that is going to keep repeating forever and ever.

But I let it slide every single time.

Maybe I just _want_ it to be true bad enough to _pretend_ it is.

"What time is it?" I ask in passing as I walk into the adjoining kitchen.

"Five after five," she calls back to me. I groan as I swing open the fridge door. My shift starts at 6:30, and I still have some English worksheet for homework to get through. When I get back home at 10:30, there's a good chance I'll be too tired to even think about diagraming sentences.

Oh well. That's what homeroom and lunch are for, right?

I grab a bottled water from the fridge and a granola bar from our little pantry, planning on sneaking these into my bag, past my boss and snacking on them before my shift starts. He has a strict 'no food' policy, despite working in the food service industry. Go figure.

I march back into the living room, chuck my drink and snack onto the chair, and grab my boots that lay limp on the floor, pulling them on and zipping them up over the jeans I slept in. I'm sure my boss won't mind me coming in wearing a sweater, jeans, and combat boots. He might, however, mind my rather unkempt appearance, lack of makeup, and the bed-head that I haven't straightened today…

Eh, he can deal. I'm a waitress at a run-down café, not Hooters.

I run my hands through my wavy hair in a pathetic attempt at brushing it, turning to my mom as I do so. She tosses her magazine back onto the table and focuses her attention back onto me.

"My shift ends at 10:30. There's some frozen pizzas in the freezer so you can…"

I trail off, my eyes catching sight of a suspicious residue on the edge of the coffee table. I narrow my eyes at the familiar white substance, red hot anger rising in my chest and filling my lungs. I flit my eyes back up at my mother, who just looks back at me with feigned innocence.

"_Mother_…" I hiss warningly, trying to keep my temper under control.

"What?" she asks. I cross my arms over my chest and glare at her, trying to stay firm and not let her off so easily this time. I had hoped she stopped. In retrospect, I should have known she didn't. But like all the broken promises before, I always let this slide for some unexplainable reason. It's gotten to the point where I don't even feel disappointment or sadness anymore. Just… annoyance. Annoyance and anger.

"I don't want to see that in this house," I demand sternly. "If you have to do… _that,_ then do it somewhere else. I don't want another pleasant little surprise visit by the cops _or _your dealer."

She tilts her head, pulling her blue fleece blanket tighter around her shoulders with a small shudder.

"Johnny visited while I was out? Why didn't you tell me?"

I roll my eyes.

"That's not the point," I insist. "_The point is, _if you're really going to do coke, please don't do it here. Why do you think they took Gra–,"

"Don't go there," Mom warns, pointing a warning finger at me. I can hear the finality in her tone, and I know better than to press the issue any further. I may act as the parent most of the time, but my mom is not afraid to put her foot down and be the mother she's supposed to be. Always at the wrong times, though.

"Fine," I relent. "Just… please. _Don't _do that here. _Please_, Ma?"

She cracks a smile, her previously serious demeanor now suddenly washed away, her face drained of all tension. It's like a switch was flipped inside her head.

"I promise, Deedee. Tanya was out of town and I didn't know where else to go. It was a one-time thing, I swear."

_Just like it was a one-time thing last month, and the month before that, and the month before that…_

I sigh, grabbing my purse off the chair and shoving my granola bar and water into it before hauling it over my shoulder.

"I'll be back before you know it, okay?" I tell her. She just nods at me, laying back down on the couch and pulling the blanket over her body.

"Love you," she calls as I walk to the door. I turn back briefly, returning the warm smile plastered across her face. My mother may have her faults, but when she smiles at me, it's like all those times she let me down throughout the years are just washed down the drain and I eagerly take on the role of the doting daughter, just happy that she's happy.

I'm pathetic, aren't I?

Still, I do what I always do; I give her a little wave, blow a kiss, and smile big.

"Love you too, Ma."

* * *

The sun has already been torn down from the sky by the time I step out into the streets, replaced by the glittering moon. It's a full moon tonight. A bit chilly, a little windy, but overall a nice night. I jump off the last stair of the apartment building, pausing for a few seconds to let the cool night breeze wash over me. It's my favorite kind of weather; not cold, but just enough chill to make you shiver. Like the weather near the beginning of horror movies when the dumb blonde protagonist decides to take a walk through a deserted alley in the bad part of town completely unarmed.

I watch way too many TV movies.

Rubbing my arms for warmth, I scuttle along the eerily silent road with the wind pushing back against my body. It's calm tonight. Oddly so. There are no hookers, no pimps, no junkies, not even a random asshat whistling at me from a car. Usually I'm on red alert on a Friday night, my hand buried in my bag and clutching tightly at the pepper spray I always keep on me. But tonight, I feel no need.

Maybe I'll have another encounter with a little birdie tonight.

I snort at the thought. The fact that I even bumped – or more accurately, _smacked_ – into _the _Robin a few nights ago is still surreal to me. I'd sooner expect Mom to quit drugs and join a quilting circle before I expect to meet Batman and Robin. Sure, you hear stories about their exploits throughout Gotham, but that's exactly what they are; stories. Batman and Robin are heroes, spoken of in song and legend. They're larger than life, not the type of people you'd expect to encounter on the streets. Even with their protective shadows looming over dear old Gotham, you're more likely to be shot dead in the streets than you are to have an encounter with them.

Hell, you're more likely to get your leg bitten off by a rabid kitten than to run into Batman and Robin here in the East End.

I smirk a bit, remembering the shock on Robin's face when I back-talked him. He looked half-way ready to smack me silly. Maybe I should have been a bit more reluctant, but really, what was he gonna do? Kill me? It's _Robin_. His job is to guard Gotham's innocent citizens, not beat them up. I had no reason to be intimidated.

Now if it was Batman… That's a different stories. From the stories I've heard about him on the street, you do not under any circumstances want to see his glare directed towards you. Much less back-sass him.

But Robin… He's different. Seeing him riled up and flustered was… cute. Fun.

Who knows? I might see him again one day, hopefully under better circumstances.

I find myself smiling to myself as I pass a few more dank buildings on my way to the café, amused by my train of thought and just happy that I have yet to see Lola out and about tonight. Friday is her busiest night, and she always goes to work around the time my shift starts as a way for us to sort of check up on each other. She must have heard the news about yet another body being discovered two days ago and finally decided to stay at home.

_Good_.

I swear, I'm going to worry myself to death over that girl.

As I speed-walk down the sidewalk just a block from my destination, the back of my hand grazes my bag slightly and comes back… wet. I stare down at the worn old cloth bag curiously. What the hell…?

The damn water bottle. The cap must have not been screwed on all the way.

I groan.

_Dammit._

Taking a sharp turn, I stop off at the edge of an alley and leaning against the wall momentarily. I rip my bag off my shoulder and flip it open, muttering angrily to myself. I have my wallet in here. I swear to god and Zeus and every deity there is, if the water seeped through my things, I'm gonna stab –

A strange sound coming from the alley behind me stops my hand right as it wraps around my water bottle.

It sounded like a gagging noise. A weird, wet gagging noise. Faint, but just loud enough to pick up on in the otherwise deafening silence of the night. I falter slightly, my grip on the bottle loosening. I'm not quite alarmed… yet. It could have been an animal or something…

The muffled, pained scream that comes next, however, _is _enough to alarm me.

My muscles tense up in preparation for attack, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. My mind runs wild, spinning different scenarios of where that noise could have possibly come from. None of them are good.

When you live in the East End, you always have to expect the worst.

I stiffen and lean further into the cold brick, stuffing my hand further down into my purse. I grab ahold of the cool, slippery surface of my pepper spray can, gripping it tightly. Slowly taking it out of my bag, I spin around on my heels to face the alley opening behind me with a shaking hand.

My breath hitches, my eyes widening.

_No. Fucking. Way._

The moonlight illuminates the dark, dirty alley, revealing a sparkling pool of dark red blood slithering along the cracked pavement. The smell of iron hits my nose, making me gag in disgust. My eyes travel upwards to the source of the bloody river.

It's a girl.

She can't be much older than I am. She's stripped down to a plain white cotton bra and matching panties, both of which are soiled with mud and spotted with blood. Her eyes are wide open and staring up at the night sky, unseeing. But the thing that my eyes are drawn to the most is the long, deep slash mark that runs across her delicate throat, splitting her open from ear to ear.

I gulp, my hands trembling violently now. I suddenly feel nauseous. The putrid smell of the blood, the sight of the dead body, the fear that courses through my veins – it's all too much, too overwhelming…

My hands aren't shaking anymore.

My entire _body _is shaking.

Hesitantly, I allow my eyes to rake upwards. There, looming over the body, is a man.

And his dark eyes are focused solely on _me_.

Slowly, a wide smile spreads across his face.

"You're going to need more than just pepper spray, sweetheart."

* * *

**A/N: Trust me, I have _many _plans for this story. ;)**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: I would say I'm sorry for leaving you with a cliffhanger, but I'd be lying.**

**With that, I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

**Damian's POV**

I'm slowly but surely approaching day 5 of my grounding and I'm in the process of learning to despise the beige color of the walls in my bedroom. Beige is such a _boring, _in between color. Quite tacky too, if I think about it long enough. Why would anyone want to paint a room beige? It's the color of dirt and vomit, not something pleasing to the eye.

Then again, any color can become ugly when you're stuck staring at it 24/7.

I'm not sure how long this punishment is supposed to last. Father took one look at me when I snuck in through the Batcave and sent me up to my room, his deathly calm only interrupted by the vein just barely bulging in his forehead; a tell-tale sign of his burgeoning rage. He made sure I knew I was not allowed off the Manor grounds unless he allows it, which I heavily doubt he will.

I scowl to myself, tossing a small bouncy ball up in the air and catching it over and over again as I lay flat on my bed, like I've been doing on and off for the past two hours. I've gradually grown tired of this mundane and tedious activity, but I'm going through an unfortunate bout of artist's block, so sketching is out of the question for now. I have no books to read that I have not already read 3 times over, and I've gone through my iPod playlist so many times that I swear my ears are _still_ ringing.

I am terribly bored.

Being confined to the Manor is suffocating. I feel like a caged animal being held down in chains. My need for space to roam around in is deep and primal. If I don't get my freedom back soon, I fear I may explode.

I get up to pace around the perimeter of the room, my body anxious for _some _sort of action. I would say I'm starting to become stir crazy, but I think I passed that point 2 days ago at the very least. I need some sort of outlet for the energy threatening to burst from me. I need an outlet, a face to punch in or crime to punish.

"Damian!" Father's booming voice calls from downstairs. "Get down here!"

It takes me no more than 10 seconds to race out the door and slide down the staircase banister, taking a flying leap to the floor. Father has barely spoken a single word to me since I snuck out nearly a week ago. He's angry with me, that much is obvious, but he's a practical man; if he's speaking to me now, he must absolutely need my help on something. Whatever it is, I just hope it gets me out of this cage I call a home.

My father is just putting his phone back into his pocket when I land, glancing over at me.

"Your punishment is over," he states simply with no pretense whatsoever. "We have a case."

A grin slowly tugs at my lips.

Finally, some action.

* * *

Oh, how wrong I was.

This is _definitely_ not the type of action I was looking for.

Instead of swinging in and kicking a scumbag's face in or breaking up a drug bust or even stopping a routine mugging, we're parked near an area closed off by crime scene tape and covered in police officers. Any criminal that was at this scene is long gone by now.

There goes my face to punch in.

"And _why _can the GCPD not handle this on their own?" I hiss as we exit the car, approaching the bustling crime scene.

"_Because _their only witness isn't cooperating and Gordon thought we might be able to help," he replies without bothering to look back at me. I bite my tongue in anger. He _knows _that is one of my pet-peeves.

I follow closely behind him, squinting at the oncoming glare of the multiple police car lights. From the abnormally large amount of responding officers, I'm guessing this must be a reasonably high profile case. Most likely, it's related to the East End Killer, as they've branded the new rapist-murderer running amok around Gotham. He must have struck again and miraculously left a witness behind this time around.

Odd. He doesn't seem the type to leave any loose ends. He's been meticulous so far. The GCPD is at their wit's end with the unusual lack of evidence.

Either he's sure this witness won't talk or he or she will be dead within week's end. Whichever one it is, I don't see us getting much out of this unfortunate survivor.

I don't see why Father thought it necessary to drag me along for the investigation when always handles this type of situation by himself, but I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially not when I've spent so long stuck in the Manor like an animal caught in a trap.

As we get closer, I see what looks to be a teenaged girl struggling against the grip of a detective who refuses to let go of her arm. Her long, light brown hair sways wildly from side to side as she fights him tooth and nail. It's like watching an animal struggle in the grip of its predator; desperate and fierce.

She obviously doesn't need _us_ to tell her she's a dead girl walking if she gives a statement.

"I'm not going to talk!" she shouts over the sound of the jabbering detectives. "I know my rights! You can't make me tell you anything if I don't want to! Just _let me go_!"

The officer holding her turns his body towards us, and I get a glimpse of the witness's face, half cloaked by loose strands of wavy hair. Even in this poorly lit area, I recognize that face instantly.

It's that intriguing young girl I ran into a few nights ago – What was her name again? Dee?

Yes, that sounds about right.

I inch closer out of curiosity, briefly wondering if she recognizes me as I do her. As soon as that thought occurs me to me, I mentally scold myself for being so stupid. Even if our little encounter hadn't happened, I'm sure she would still recognize me. I'm Robin, for God's sake. Everyone in Gotham City knows me.

And if they're smart, they fear me as well.

Before my masked eyes are able to meet hers, Batman takes the lead and approaches her. I catch sight of the disapproving looks shot at him by many of the officers present. In response, I glare right back at them.

They may not like us, but they don't have much choice, now do they?

I watch as Dee's eyes go wide as saucers at the sight of my father. Whether it's in fear or wonder, I'm not sure. Maybe a bit of both. Whatever it is, it's certainly amusing to witness. It always is.

"B-Batman?" she stutters. "_The _Batman? W-Why are you…?"

"Glad you could make it," Commissioner Gordon cuts her off, reaching out to respectfully shake Batman's hand while Dee looks on with a bewildered and slightly exasperated expression, as if this entire situation is just too ridiculous to be true.

I take this time as an opportunity to approach, standing by Batman's side with my shoulders squared and my posture rigid. But no matter what my pose is, my presence does not command respect in the way Batman's does. The disparaging glances I get from the on duty officers are evidence of that. I narrow my eyes in retaliation.

Fools.

Do they have any _idea _what I could do to them?

Batman's heavy hand landing on my shoulder chases that dark thought away.

"Robin, would you handle the witness while the Commissioner and I talked?" Batman asks – or more accurately, _commands _– me.

Finally, I understand what purpose my presence here serves.

Father thinks that because Dee and I are close in age, I may be able to make her comfortable enough to get her to confide in me about what happened tonight. I resist the instinct to roll my eyes at the idiotic plan. If she has any shred of intelligence in that pretty little head of hers, she won't give me a thing. Besides, just because she may possibly speak to _me _doesn't mean she'll turn around and give the detectives a witness statement. Anything she tells me is inadmissible to the GCPD.

Dee's eyes meet mine at last, widening almost imperceptibly. Her mouth gapes open, and I know she's about to say _something_ that will reveal to my father that we have met before. I'm not sure why, but that little piece of information isn't something I want Father knowing.

I grab her arm away from the detective holding her in place.

"Come with me," I mutter, dragging her away from the chaos. She remains surprisingly limp, allowing me to move her.

Hm.

I expected the feisty girl I met earlier this week to fight back against my grip like she did with the officer who was holding her against her will. But, when I see the enraged expression spreading across her face like a shadow, I know I've spoken too soon.

"You again?" she hisses. "Is it your goal in life to show up every time something happens to me on the streets? Because it's really starting to creep me out."

I roll my eyes at her dramatics.

_Tt_.

Women.

"Would you mind telling me exactly _what_ happened?" I shoot back, keeping my volume to a minimum as to not be overheard. Her intense hazel eyes narrow at me in a challenging way, her jaw set. I narrow my masked eyes right back at her to show her I have no intention of backing down.

"I have nothing to tell you," she insists, harshly ripping her arm away from my grip. "I just want to get out of here. They've been holding me here for at least an hour. If I get to work any later than I already am, my boss is going to tear me apart limb by limb and hang my severed head on his mantle as a warning to the rest of the employees."

What normal, red-blooded teenage girl spends her Friday nights working?

More importantly, what teenage girl uses such an odd choice of words?

"The sooner you give the detectives your statement, the sooner you get to leave," I attempt to reason with her. She gives me an incredulous look, as if I've just demanded she track the killer down herself.

"And have a pissed off serial killer slice my neck open for snitching? I don't think so, Bird Boy."

I cringe at the unflattering nickname. Hopefully that little term of endearment doesn't stick.

"You're the only witness in high risk case," I snap, my patience wearing thin. "He could murder another girl in the time it takes you to come to your senses and give a statement. Do you really want that hanging over your head?"

She visibly flinches at my words, her shoulders slumping in defeat. It seems I've finally been able to knock some sense into that thick skull of hers by tapping into her humanity. No one wants to be responsible for the death of innocents.

"I _wish _I could help," she admits reluctantly. "I really, _really _wish I could help. And I'm not just saying that. Some of my best friends are prostitutes, and I don't know _what_ I'd do if he killed any of them. But it was dark out when I saw him and he just pulled his hood up and… walked right past me. Like I was just _there_. In his way. He didn't give me as much as a sideways glance."

I furrow my brows in confusion. I've read up on this killer. He's ruthless, calculating, and absolute. He doesn't leave behind witnesses, much less a girl that fits his victim profile to a tee. It would have made more sense to me if she managed to escape by running for her life. But he just… walked right past her? It doesn't make sense.

He's planning something. That I'm sure of. There's no way he plans to let this be. He's far too meticulous for that.

Dee sighs and takes a step back, a signal that she would like to end the conversation.

"As you can see, I have nothing valuable to offer this investigation. So please, just let me go to work. I can't afford to lose this job over this."

I'm tempted to grab her by the arm and drag her over to the officers to demand she be given around the clock protection until this beast is apprehended, but I know they do not have the resources to provide that. And even if they did, I have a feeling that Dee is the type of girl who has too much pride to accept help from anyone, much less overbearing help from police officers.

But who knows what will happen to her without any sort of protection?

I briefly wonder why I care so much; I don't _know_ Dee. Not really. She's not _my _problem. She's just some girl I ran into on the street one day and exchanged some playful banter with. I shouldn't be so concerned with what happens to her.

But she's still an innocent. And it's my job – no, my _responsibility_ as Robin to protect her.

"Fine," I relent, giving her a small shove. "Get out of my sight."

She flashes me a grateful smile that illuminates her entire face like lights on a Christmas tree.

_Tt_. I hate cheery types.

"Thank you, Bird Boy," she teases good-naturedly before turning on her heels, her long brown hair swaying back as she struts off. I watch as she rushes out of the crime scene like a woman on a mission, pointedly ignoring the officers who try to get her attention. A small smirk tugs at my lips.

I don't suppose Batman will protest to me dropping in on the East End to check on her in the weeks to come…

Just to ensure her safety, of course.

* * *

**A/N: Ya'll are probably wondering where I'm going with this. But trust me, I have this alllll planned out. Kind of.**

**Please don't be shy! Feel free to leave a review and tell me what you thought! Until next time, dear readers. :)**


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: I've been on a writing frenzy lately! Now that my school play is over and we're getting a lot of snow days, I have the time on my hands. Besides, this story has been giving me a lot of inspiration lately. Which is why I feel like I must say, if you read some of my other stories and are wondering why I haven't been updating them recently, then here's your answer! I've just been so interested in this story lately that I've neglected my others. Rest assured, if you're a fan of 168 Hours, I plan to update that soon. :)**

**ALSO, I plan on maybe changing the summary to this story, so be aware of that. I don't want to change it and have anyone freak out because they can't find it on search or something.**

**With that all being said, please enjoy!**

* * *

**Dee's POV**

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we don't accept grocery store coupons here – and no, speaking with my manager will not fix that."

20 minutes of repeating the same thing over and over again and the short, plump woman at the counter _still _won't accept the fact that the café doesn't give out coupons, nor will we take grocery store coupons, much less for cream spinach soup that we don't even sell.

Welcome to the wonderful world of the food service industry, where the customer is always right even when they're not.

"This is ridiculous!" she squawks back at me, her chubby face turning beet red with rage. "I demand to see your manager!"

I keep the polite smile forcefully plastered on my face, ready to calmly tell her exactly where she can shove those damn coupons, when one of my coworkers strides up to the cash register and pulls me back slightly by my arm as a signal that it's his turn to take over for me. I sigh in relief.

In all honesty, I was probably a few seconds away from doing something that would cause me to lose my job.

"Time for you to go home, Collins," my coworker tells me with a sympathetic smile on his face. I run a hand through my knotted hair, giving him a tired smile in return that I'm not quite sure reaches my eyes.

"Thanks, Myers. See you tomorrow."

I lean in closer, just out of earshot of the pissed off costumer demanding our attention in front of us.

"And may God have mercy on your soul."

He chuckles softly, a gesture I do not return. All the negotiating today has left me too exhausted to make the attempt.

I take a step back from the counter, pretending not to notice the concern directed towards me in his expression. It's not like he hasn't seen me tired before – he's my coworker on the morning shift, for god's sake. We're all tired and miserable and want to go home. I must look especially haggard today if it's enough to warrant a concerned look from him.

Oh well. I don't have the time or energy to worry about my appearance. Not today.

I rip my ugly green apron off as I walk into the back, depositing it on the hanger and grabbing my ratty old bag in preparation to leave for the day. A small smile makes its way to my face at the thought of going home and taking a nice, long nap. I'm so exhausted that I'm not sure I'll even be able to make it to my bed before I pass out. And Mom is probably taking a nap on the couch as she usually is when I come home.

The living room floor doesn't seem too awful comfort wise…

"Hey, Dee?" another coworker of mine calls out from behind me. I spin around on the heels of my converse, a little bit grumpy from being so rudely flung from my fantasy of sleep.

"What is it?" I snap, much harsher than I intended. My coworker flinches as if he's been slapped, and I immediately regret my tone. That's not like me at all. I'm not usually this snappish on the job. Sure, I'm not flinging daisies and singing Disney songs at 7am, but I'm polite enough. I must just be tired…

Yeah, that must be it. I just need a little bit of rest and I'll be good as new.

"I don't mean to bother you," my coworker, Alex, defends himself. "I'm really sorry. I was just worried about you."

Ugh.

I should have known this was coming.

Alex is a nice guy, he really is. He's always been kind to me, even a little bit sweet on me. I, however, have no interest in pursuing any sort of romantic relationship at the moment. Between school, work, taking care of my mom, and what little remnants of a social life that I still have, I don't have time for one. Besides, he holds no interest for me beyond the realms of acquaintanceship. He's just not my type, I guess…

Okay, I'm getting off topic.

What I'm getting at is, Alex is nice and I really appreciate his concern, but he has an annoying tendency to be overbearing and pry into places in my life where he doesn't belong. I tolerate it because I know he means no harm, but I'm not in the mood today.

"I'm _fine_," I insist, throwing in a smile for good measure. Alex, however, does not look convinced.

"Are you sure? You've been kind of… _different _lately."

I blink quizzically at him, letting his sentence sink in.

Different? How would _he _know whether or not I'm acting 'different'? We only see each other once a week during the morning shift, and even then, we only make the traditional polite conversation normal amongst coworkers. We're not friends – hell, we're barely even acquaintances. He doesn't know me, not really. So where does he get off on saying I'm acting 'different'?

For a split second, I wonder where this irrational amount of rage is coming from, but the growing annoyance I feel smothers that concern fairly quick.

"What do you mean 'different'?" I question, struggling to keep up a polite smile.

"On edge," he answers immediately. "Like you're anxious about something."

For a brief moment, I stand there in a stunned silence at his words. However, it quickly gives way to a soft chuckle.

"I assure you, Alex, I'm not anxious about anything."

Me? Anxious? Over what? I have nothing to be anxious about, besides the usual hassles of juggling all my responsibilities like any other teenager. He must be reading me all wrong. _Everyone _seems to be reading me wrong lately. Even Lola, who knows more sides of me than any of my other friends, insinuated the same thing earlier today and assumed it was because of that little… _run –in _I had with the East End Killer last night.

Ridiculous, right?

I mean, it's not like anything happened that night that should make me anxious. He barely even looked at me, much less did anything to me. I'm perfectly fine. It wasn't _me_ whose throat he slit. It wasn't _me _who he raped. It wasn't _me _who he left bleeding out on a cold, dirty alley street in the East End like a piece of garbage no one would miss…

He didn't do any of that to _me._

When he spotted me standing there at the end of the alleyway, frozen and scared out of my wits, I could have just as easily been that girl laying there bloody and brutalized, just another face on the bulletin board of victims used to motivate detectives into doing their jobs.

But it wasn't me.

He walked right past me.

He's not coming back for me.

I'm _sure _of it.

It wasn't me.

_It wasn't me_.

"Um, Dee? Are you okay? Your hands are shaking…"

I glance back up at Alex's worried face, then down to my trembling hands. As soon as I become self-aware, I try to stop the nervous tremor. It subsides a bit, but it still lingers slightly. A sign of my weakness, just like me staying frozen last night.

I shake my head to myself, running a twitching hand down my face as if I'm trying to wake myself up from this weird reality I'm in at the moment…

Tired. I'm just tired. That's it. I just need some sleep. Some sleep and I'll be alright.

"I'm fine," I snap at Alex, shoving my hands into my pockets. "I'm just really tired, you know? That's all."

From the look on his face, I can tell he doesn't quite believe me.

"You know, if you need to talk about anything, I'm right here," he offers.

Yeah, not gonna happen, buddy.

"Thanks for the offer," I ground out through gritted teeth, eager to make my escape. "I'll see you next Saturday."

I turn away from him, about to walk out the door, when he grabs my upper-arm. My eyes snap down to where he has me in his grip, and I have to bury the urge to give him a right-hook to the face.

There's nothing I hate more than people touching me without my permission.

"Hey, Dee?"

I wrench my arm out of his grip not-so-gently.

"_What?_" I snap

He sighs in defeat, taking a step back to give me space.

"Just… stay safe out there. Okay?"

I haul my purse over my shoulder, giving him a wry smile that I hope displays all the rage I feel right now.

"Don't I always?" I reply. Before he can get another word out, I turn back around and storm out the door, paying no heed to the blast of cold air that smacks my face. It's a cold day in Gotham, and I forgot my jacket at home, but a little cold air can't hurt me.

_Hell, a notorious serial killer couldn't hurt me…_

I snap out of that rogue thought quickly.

Last night has been replaying in my head since it happened. I was too busy last night going over everything I did wrong to get any sleep. I've got to put it out of my head.

For the rest of my walk home, that's exactly what I do. I think of anything and everything else.

I think of the school work I still have to finish…

I think of that cliché young adult novel I started reading yesterday morning…

I think of what I'm going to cook tonight (it's a toss-up between ramen and mac n' chees)…

I think of what I'm going to do with Lola the next time I see her…

Just random, mundane things to pass the time.

My strategy must be working, because before I know it, I'm standing outside of my shoddy apartment building…

… Along with several police cruisers and an ominous looking dark van.

I watch from afar in astonishment as several police officers march into the building with purpose behind their steps. Surprise police visits around here are not unusual in the least, but that's not what leaves me befuddled about this scene.

It's the van. I recognize it.

It's Child Protective Services.

That's certainly a strange sight around here. I haven't seen one of those come through since Gracie and Zander…

I swallow a lump forming in my throat and push that thought far away.

There aren't many kids in our apartment building. It's mostly inhabited by drug dealers, high school dropouts, and the occasional pimp that I avoid in the elevator like the plague. The only kids I know of in our apartment building belong to the family above us. I'm thankful I'm not home often, because when I am, I have to deal with the sounds of the kids scampering all around while their mother screams at them to shut up and go to bed.

That explains the CPS being here. The mother must have gotten busted for something and now the kids are being taken away from their home and put into the system.

Poor kids.

I shrug it off and walk over to the entrance to the apartment building, keeping my head down to avoid attracting attention from some of the cops surrounding the front. I've spent my entire life trying to stay under the radar of police officers, and like always, I'm able to slip by undetected. But, before I can swing through the door, a strong hand grabs my arm and pulls me back.

"I'm afraid you can't go in there, ma'am."

What is it with men and grabbing me by the arm lately?

I look up at the cop who has me in his grip, putting on my best pouty, innocent teenage girl face. I've cajoled my way into the good graces of many cops in my day. It's a skill that comes in handy when you're the daughter of a woman who is frequently in trouble with the law.

You'd be surprised how gullible cops around here can be.

"But sir, my mom is in there. I just want to make sure she's alright."

He narrows his eyes, looking me up and down. He glances over at some of his cop buddies standing by near the CPS van, then back to me.

"Is your mother Rosalinda Bartlett?" he asks, his voice as monotone as ever.

I can feel my face drain of color as a cold flash of terror runs through me. A cop talking about my mother is _never _a good sign. My first thought?

My mom is dead. She finally overdosed.

I shiver at the thought.

_Calm down, Dee. Don't assume the worst automatically._

"Yes," I reply somewhat shakily. "Why do you ask?"

I wait with baited breath for an explanation from him, some sort of reassurance that my fears are unfounded, but I get none. Instead, the doors behind us slam open and two police officers walk out.

Hauling my mother between them.

"I swear, it isn't mine!" she screams at them shrilly, her mess of black curls flying all over the place as she thrashes in the grip of the two unrelenting policemen. She's dressed in only a loose-fitting t-shirt, sweatpants, and her slippers; completely unprotected from the cold chill. I want nothing more than to run to her, hug her tightly, and protect her from the men trying to take her away from me.

But I know better than that by now.

"I had a guy over last night, the drugs are his!" she shouts, still fighting with everything she has. "I swear I didn't know he had them on him!"

I can't take it anymore; I have to look away. Though it's a familiar scene, I can never stand to see her like this. She's supposed to be my mother, my rock, the person I can go to when I'm in trouble. Seeing her so vulnerable… It just doesn't feel right. It never has, no matter how many times I've seen her like this.

"Okay, Miss, if you'll just come with me…" my designated officer orders in the same monotone voice, dragging me away from the chaotic scene. I don't fight back, just glad that I'm no longer watching my mom being manhandled.

Turning around, I watch as a man in a suit steps out of the black van –

_Oh shit._

In all the mayhem, I _completely_ forgot about that black van and the purpose it serves. It didn't even register to me.

Panic swells up in my chest as I finally come to the only logical conclusion there is:

_CPS is taking me away_.

"NO!" I shout, unable to contain myself. No, no, no, this isn't happening. I won't _let _it happen. They are out of their minds if they think I will go quietly. I spent time in a group home once when I was 10, and I promised myself the day I got out that I would _never _end up in that position again.

I fully intend to keep that promise.

"You can't do this to me!" I shout at the officer, wrenching my arm out of his grip before he can hand me over to the CPS worker like a lamb to slaughter. I can still hear Mom's shouts, the commanding voices of the officers hauling her away, the sirens blaring from the police car, all of the sounds blended together in a chaotic melody that causes my chest to constrict painfully, cutting off air from reaching my lungs…

No, I _cannot _have a panic attack! Not now!

I regain my ability to breathe when the CPS worker grabs me by both shoulders and wrenches me back into the van against my will, practically tossing me into the leather seat like a bag of flour. Pure adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I do the very first thing that pops into my head.

I punch him square in the face.

It's a mean left hook right to the nose, and if the cracking sound I heard was any indication, I hit my mark. If it were under different circumstances, I would take a moment to admire my work, but all I have right now are animalistic instincts.

I _have _to get away

His head flies back as he lets out a pained groan, blood gushing from his nose like a small river. I take it as an opportunity to try and bolt from the van. Unfortunately, this guy must have seen it all before, because he's quick to restrain me and buckle me in. Even with blood pouring down his face at an alarming rate and me thrashing around like a lunatic, he's able to secure me into the seat and slam the door shut behind me.

Damn, he's a pro.

I smack a hand against the window, watching as they're finally able to subdue my mother into the police cruiser. Briefly, she turns back to look at the van I'm trapped in and our eyes lock. As quickly as it happens, it's gone. But in that one flash, I could see it all; the terror, the confusion, the concern. All reflected in her gaze.

Tears form in the corners of my eyes, stinging like venom. I just don't understand. I've always been _so_ careful. Much too careful to let something like this happen. I never let her dealer into our apartment, I clean the house, I get rid of any evidence of her illegal activities, I take care of her, I keep a good job and put food on the table, I do good in school, I generally try to stay out of trouble and under the radar…

What did I do wrong?

I rest my head against the cool window as the CPS worker starts to drive away. Away from my mom, away from my home, away from my life. A few stray tears leak out and slide down my cheeks. I wipe them away.

All I want is my mom.

I blink the rest of the tears away and watch the scenery change as we drive slowly through the East End, on our way to God-knows-where. Everything is as it was when I walked home today, except for one thing.

A man stands on the sidewalk, his body facing towards the road. He wears a black hoodie and jeans. Totally inconspicuous, right? But something about his appearance is both alarmingly familiar and surprisingly terrifying. And though we drive by too quickly for me to be absolutely sure, I'm almost positive I can see his face slightly shadowed by the hoodie.

And he's smiling right at me.

* * *

**A/N: Will Dee be reunited with her mother?**

**Will she find out who that man is?**

**Will I ever shut up and go to sleep?**

**Keep reading and you may find out the answers to these questions!**

**Except for the last question. The answer to that one is no.**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: For one of the first times ever, I don't have much to say for my author's note.**

**Well... enjoy.**

* * *

**Damian's POV**

"I'm not sure what's come over me," I tell Colin, taking another stab at my too-dry salad. "Every time I pick up my pencil and attempt to draw, it comes out just… wrong. I'm blocked and I don't know why."

Colin shrugs, taking a sip from his large strawberry smoothie. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, wondering how he drinks those syrup-drenched concoctions with such ease. The smoothies here are subpar at best. Hell, even the salads are dry and tasteless, no matter how much dressing they attempt to drown it in. But Colin seems to like this café's atmosphere, so I tolerate it when he asks to meet up here.

"Maybe you need to get inspired," Colin suggests. "Try something new, make some new friends, explore. Maybe you'll get some sketch ideas."

I scoff at the idea. Explore? I had already traveled to every corner of the earth by the time I was 6 years old. As Robin, I've seen things that the average mind couldn't even begin to fathom. I doubt 'exploring' or 'trying something new' will ease my artist's block.

As for making new friends, I do not feel the need. I already have Colin and Grayson. I have my animals. Todd isn't the worst company in the world, either. Even Drake and I have come to a somewhat… _understanding _of each other, though I would not consider us to be 'friends'. My point is, I have no desire to seek out extra companionship.

"It's just something I must work through," I reply dismissively. "All artists experience it at one point or another. It can't last forever, now can it?"

Once again, he shrugs in response, taking another long sip from his smoothie.

"So what else has been happening in Damian's world?" he asks, skillfully changing the subject. I shove the salad aside, finally giving up on the ranch-drenched health hazard.

"My life has been unusually boring these past few days," I answer honestly. "The only thing worth mentioning is the… case."

Cryptic, but I can't talk openly in a café surrounded by civilians.

"You mean the East End one?" he asks, glancing around briefly to see if anyone is listening in. "I thought your dad told you to stay out of it?"

"He came around," I reply with a smirk. Yes, he came around, after I hacked into any online file I could find that contained information about the case. I must have worn him down, because he eventually stopped refusing my help when I offered it to him. He's still not too entirely thrilled with the idea of me working with him on this, but he has learned to choose his battles. And this is not one he will win.

"Why would you even _want _to get involved in that?" Colin asks incredulously. "That doesn't exactly sound like a fun case."

I want to tell Colin that I'm already invested in this case. I want to tell him about the girl I keep encountering who can't seem to keep herself out of trouble, the girl who has jumpstarted my keen interest in this case. But for some reason, I know that this is something I should keep to myself.

"It's something to pass the time," I answer dismissively, taking a sip of my water. Colin seems to accept my response for once in his life, not pushing the issue any further. For that, I am thankful. I enjoy his company, I really do, but he doesn't usually know when to leave well enough alone.

A comfortable silence envelops us, only broken by the occasional sounds of Colin slurping on his smoothie and my fork weakly poking around in the pathetic excuse for a salad sitting in front of me. After a few more stabs at my so-called food, Colin gives me a strange, almost concerned look.

"If you don't like the salad, I can always order you something else," he offers. I take a look at the empty tray next to him that once held a cheeseburger and a side of fries. It took him what seemed like less than a minute to devour the entire meal whole. According to him, not all their food is complete garbage. I wouldn't know. I've only made it half-way through their meager salad menu.

"The salad is the only semblance to a healthy and well-balanced meal that they sell here. I am not going to poison my body with some fattening, artery-clogging, greasy excuse for a lunch."

Colin rolls his eyes, pulling the salad bowl to his side of the table and stabbing the fork into the soggy lettuce. This isn't the first time Colin has finished my food for me. The stomach on that boy is seemingly bottomless.

"You don't _always _have to be a stick in the mud," he fires back, his mouth half-full with lettuce.

"I'm _not _being a 'stick in the mud'," I grumble. "With the work I have, I must keep my body in perfect condition. Excuse me for not eating food that would just make me sluggish."

Colin lets out a soft chuckle. He must think I'm being dramatic, as he always says.

"Whatever you say, Damian," he dismisses, finishing off the last of my salad. I roll my eyes at him, leaning back in my chair. Another silence falls over us, just as natural as the last one. Silence has always been commonplace in our friendship. With Colin, words are optional. Just being in each other's company is enough for us.

A vibration coming from the front right pocket of my jeans tells me that I have a text. Pulling out my phone, I turn it on and see a message firmly displayed across the front of the screen.

'_Come home. Now.'_

Father certainly does not mince words.

I sigh, shoving my phone back into my pocket and standing up.

"I'm sorry to say I have to leave now," I tell Colin apologetically. "Father's orders."

Colin gives me a knowing smile, and not for the first time I'm glad I befriended someone so understanding of my situation.

"Go ahead, I'll pay for the food," he insists. I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing him. I know he has a part-time job at one of the grocery stores in town and therefore has money to pick up the tab, but I still feel guilt whenever he refuses my offer to pay for whatever bill we just racked up. After all, I'm the one with money to burn, while he's the orphan with bills to pay.

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can get a word out, Colin pulls his wallet out and slaps a $20 down onto the table, staring at me as if goading me to argue with him so he can shoot my arguments down.

Damn his pride.

"Fine," I grumble, grabbing my backpack hanging off my seat. "I'll see you back here next week. That is, if I have the time."

Colin just smirks, knowing as well as I do that I'll find time for our weekly ritual even if it means dragging myself here while I'm in the process of bleeding to death. No matter how long he's had to wait for me to finally show up, Colin knows that I always will.

He knows me too well.

* * *

I park my motorcycle in the lower level garage of the Manor, tossing my helmet onto one of the few hooks available on the wall. I run a hand through my coal black hair. Helmet hair is a pain in my ass.

One of the cats of the house creeps up on me during this, rubbing its tiny body against my legs and purring contently. I bend down and see that it's one of the younger cats, Snowball.

I regret giving in to Grayson's pleading and letting him give one of my animals such an idiotic name.

Straightening myself out, I amble inside, heading for the living room where I can only guess Father is waiting for me. It's always the living room.

I walk into the room with my eyes directed downwards, glued to my phone as I answer a text from Grayson. The incompetent moron can't figure out how to work his new phone.

"What is it that you needed from me, Father?" I ask, slowly raising my head up from my cell phone. "I thought I told you that I would text you when…"

My words die on my lips when I see what it is that Father called me away from my outing for.

Or should I say, _who _it is that he called me here for.

A teenaged girl stands next to Father, clutching at a worn purse like it's her lifeline, glancing around wide-eyed at the opulence of the Manor as if it's an alien planet. But it's none of these things that shocks me about her.

It's the familiarity.

_It's Dee._

I do my best to keep a straight face as to not give myself away. Robin and Dee may have met, but Damian Wayne and Dee have not. I never expected us to cross paths when I'm out of uniform. We travel in two different worlds that should not intersect, but here she is, standing in my living room.

_Why the hell is she here?_

Father seems to take my stunned silence as an invitation to explain.

"Damian, I'd like you to meet Di-,"

"Dee," she cuts him off. "My name is Dee. It's nice to meet you, Damian."

Father glances down at her, arching a brow in surprise.

He is not used to being interrupted, especially not in his own home.

"It's a pleasure," I mumble in response.

"_Dee_ will be staying with us indefinitely," Father interjects, almost as if he can sense the tension. "And while she's staying with us, I expect you to treat her with the same level of respect you would give me or Alfred. Are we clear?"

I can tell by the look on his face that this is something we will discuss later, when she is not in the room with us.

I nod quickly, risking a quick glance at Dee. To my surprise, she's looking back at me, completely unabashed. She doesn't even look away when our eyes accidentally lock. She just continues to stare at me, scrutinizing me, sizing me up. I don't know why, but it's incredibly disconcerting. When my face forms into a scowl, she finally tears her intense gaze away with cheeks tinted pink. A ripple of satisfaction runs down my spine.

I win.

"She'll be staying in the bedroom across from yours," Father reveals. "Would you care to show her where that is?"

I force a smile, beckoning Dee over to the staircase. With a worried glance cast in the direction of my father, she follows me upstairs in complete silence. Unlike with Colin, this silence is awkward. Suffocating. And though the distance between the stairs and the hallway is not far at all, it feels like it takes a lifetime to make the journey. I'm not sure why her presence here makes me so distinctly uncomfortable, but it does. I don't want her here.

"Nice house you have here," she pipes up as we walk, her voice softer than it was the last time we ran into each other. I can tell, though she's trying to maintain her outward confidence, she's overwhelmed. Maybe even a tad bit scared.

Good. That means she's smart.

"Why are you here?" I blurt out. In theory, I know why she's here. She a witness to a violent crime committed by a high-risk criminal. Father must feel she needs our protection, and what better way to protect her than to bring her to the Manor? But that doesn't explain how he got ahold of her.

Dee blinks at me, seemingly put off by my blunt attitude. Well, if she's going to live in this house, she'll just have to get used to it.

"I don't know," she admits. "Your dad sprung me from a youth facility and told me I was coming home with him. I'm under his care for the time being and I have absolutely _no _idea why. I don't know why he chose me specifically or what interest I hold for him, but I hear he has a reputation for this kind of thing…"

I snort at that, thinking of all my so called 'brothers' that he's fostered. Father is a hoarder when it comes to fostering children. If only she knew the truth about her presence here.

I stop at the door across from mine, opening it up and giving a somehow sarcastic sweeping motion to the inside of the room.

"This is where you'll be staying," I state flatly, not sure what else to say. Dee walks right past me, examining her new bedroom with a keen interest. She glances around at the bare walls, opens up the doors to the spacious walk-in closet, and finally plops down on the plush queen sized bed.

"This is nice," she decides after a few moments of silence. I raise my eyebrows at her, still standing in the doorway. Nice? Just 'nice'? For a girl who lived in the East End, I would expect this room to transcend just 'nice'.

But when it comes to her, I should learn to stop having any expectations.

"I'll leave you to unpack…" I murmur, scratching uncomfortably at the base of my neck. She takes her ratty looking purse off her shoulder and throws it down onto the bed, looking up at me to flash a small, shy smile. I look away instinctively, inexplicably uncomfortable. Mumbling a goodbye, I sweep out of the room and close the door behind me.

This new living arrangement is going to take some getting used to.

* * *

**A/N: I _always _feel like a I lose momentum towards the end of the chapter! Dangit!**

**Anyways, as always, feel free to tell me what you think of this chapter. I welcome reviews, follows, and favorites.**


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hey guys! I'm sorry for the gaps between updates. I've been very busy with school now that the semester is winding down. But Spring Break is this week and I'm hoping I can get some writing in!**

**Thank you to everyone who has been encouraging me with kind reviews on this story. Especially IndigoElle. I love reading your reviews! They're so indepth and sweet. I'm so happy that a writer whose work I admire would read something of mine! :)**

**By the way, I've been considering changing the name of this story, but I wanted to give you all a head up so no one thinks it's gone if they can't find it. Okay? Okay.**

**On with the story!**

* * *

**Dee's POV**

This is… strange, to say the least. No, more than strange. It's insane. Completely outrageous. Nonsensical.

I never thought I'd ever so much as _step foot_ in Wayne Manor unless I was illegally trespassing. But here I am, staying as a… ward? Foster child? Guest? Prisoner?

I'm not even sure what I would call the situation I'm in.

And to think, just a few days ago I was stuck in a youth facility, wondering if I'd ever get out…

_I was curled up in my small, freezing, single person room – a punishment for 'attacking' another teen my age who was wailing on a scrawny little preteen boy in the cafeteria. My consequence for getting involved by jumping on his back was the rest of a day and night in solitary confinement._

_And a punch to the gut from that dude I jumped on._

_But hey, I gave as good as I got._

_I curled up on the small mattress, bringing my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them tightly. I was freezing. Wearing nothing but the assigned thin t-shirt and baggy sweatpants I got when I came here, I could feel the ridiculous amount of air conditioning seeping into my skin, chilling me down to the bone. I wanted my long-sleeved plaid over-shirt I came into this hell-hole in, but they took my things at the door, gave me these new clothes, and then demanded I take a shower before I traded in the clothes I had on. I might have lice, they said._

_I tried really hard not to be offended at that._

_The fact that they had my purse bugged me more than anything else, especially now, when I wanted nothing more than to stare at the old, beaten up family picture I kept in the side pocket. I wanted to see my mom's smiling face staring back at me. Her face before all this… crap happened to us. Before we left Dad, and before Gracie and Zander. Her face before the drugs came in and destroyed any semblance we had to a normal life.. _

_I had no idea whether or not I'd ever see my mom's face again, on photograph _or _in the flesh. _

_The thought caused an ache in my chest. I couldn't even begin to imagine a life without her in it. She was my rock, just like I was hers. But drug laws in Gotham were strict – that is, if you didn't have connections. And the only 'connection' Mom had was with our neighborhood's small time, pimply faced drug dealer._

_There was a good chance she was going to jail and I was going to be stuck here, waiting to be transported to another facility so ultimately some stranger could come take me into their home just to get an extra check each month. Within a week, there would be no trace of me. I was going to be lost in the system, just another nobody in the eyes of the state. And I would never see my mom, Lola, or anyone else I cared about ever again._

_All the events of the day came back to hit me like a freight train and I felt my eyes beginning to sting with unshed tears. _

_No. _

_I refused to cry._

_I learned when I was 10 years old that showing weakness in a place like this would just get you killed._

_No matter how badly I wanted to break down, I held it in. I told myself that I would find some way to get back to my mother. I told myself that I was completely fine. Fake it until you make it, mom always told me._

_I was going to be positive about this nightmare I was in and I was going to enjoy it, goddammit._

_I curled up further and shut my eyes tightly, intending to get some sleep so I could better face the long day ahead of me. I thought over the events of the past few days, trying to form a hypothesis about who that man was I saw smiling at me as I was taken away. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who it probably was._

_You don't just meet a serial killer and expect him to leave you be._

_I had just barely shut my heavy eyelids when I heard the harsh sound of the creaky metal door swinging open. Within an instant, I was sitting straight up on the mattress with my eyes wide open. One of the wardens walked in, his taser hanging threateningly from his hip. My eyes were glued to it._

_Tasers and I had a bad history._

_"Get up, kid," he demanded, which I promptly did. "You're getting sprung."_

_My hopes soared as my mind came up with only one logical explanation; Mom. She lied her way out of a few of these types of situations before. She could do it again, I knew she could. I let a small smile make its way to my face. She came for me. It was the only explanation, right? I mean, who else could be springing me from this place? Certainly the backlogged system didn't come up with a more permanent living situation for me already._

_The warden grabbed me by the arm, hauling me out the door with little concern for my comfort. I grumbled unhappily at his lack of care, but obliged. One step closer to my mother, right?_

_He led me down a long, sterile white hallway. It reminded me of a horror movie. I felt like I was being led away to some sort of secret science lab to become an experiment like in one of those really weird sci-fi movies with crappy CGI._

_I watched way too many TV movies…_

_When we finally reached the end of our arduous walk down the seemingly never-ending hallway, he shoved me through the door, and none too gently at that. The force caused me to stumble, knocking me off my balance. I tripped forward, pushed on by my own feet tangling together. Reaching my arms out, I grabbed ahold of whatever I could find to keep myself from falling face-first onto the tile floor._

_Which, unfortunately enough, was a very nice suit jacket belonging to a very firm, muscular chest._

_Two large, but gentle hands reached out to grab me by the shoulders and steady me. I reluctantly accepted the invasion of my space, my eyes glued to the ground in embarrassment. I didn't want to see who I had just run into._

_"Are you okay?" a deep, rumbling voice asked. I slowly peeked my head up like a turtle poking out of its shell, only to be completely blown away by what I saw._

_Bruce Wayne, the Crown Prince of Gotham himself, was staring back down at me with his brows furrowed in polite concern._

_My mouth went dry. My mind went blank. My palms began to sweat._

_I crashed head-first into Bruce fucking Wayne, billionaire owner of Wayne Enterprises and most likely the world record holder for the most times mentioned in a tabloid's headline._

_I was _never _going to live this embarrassment down._

_Tearing my body away from his grasp, I cleared my throat to break the tension that was palpable in the air. Scratching at the base of my neck nervously, I glanced up at him._

_"Sorry, sir," I murmured, struggling to keep my blush under control. The only response was a deep, disarming chuckle that put me at ease just slightly._

_"It's quite alright," he assured me in a smooth, oaky tone. His gave a dazzling, 100 watt smile and I could see why he had so many women fawning over him all the time. He could sell ice to an Eskimo._

_I just gaped at him like an idiot, completely dumbstruck in his presence. What was he doing here? Collecting another orphan, perhaps? And where was my mom?_

_"Are you Ms. Collins?" he asked. I quirked a brow at him, wondering how he knew my name._

_"Yes…"_

_He extended a welcoming hand._

_"Come with me."_

And here I am, living within the pristine grounds of stately Wayne Manor.

I'd much rather be in my tiny apartment, curled up in a chair reading a book next to my mother as she teases me about my boring choice of hobbies. Or on the roof of my apartment building with some of my friends, chatting and laughing over a few drinks I nabbed from my fridge to take the edge off. Hell, I'd even take being at work over cooped up here in this strange, freakishly clean mansion.

But hey, it beats a youth facility by a mile.

I feel out of place here, and that kid of Mr. Wayne's only serves to make that feeling worse.

Ah yes, the infamous Damian Wayne.

I don't think he likes me. No, scratch that, I _know _he doesn't like me. He's barely spoken to me since I got here yesterday. After showing me to my room, he just vanished. When I crept downstairs to get a snack, I spotted him in the next room out of the corner of my eye. As soon he turned his head over and our eyes locked, he promptly looked away. Then later that day, when Mr. Wayne invited me to eat dinner with them, he ignored me the entire time.

That was one awkward meal.

I don't understand what I've done to piss him off, but oh well, no use dwelling over it. I'm not going to live or die over getting his approval. I'm too busy trying to think of some way to get out of here and back to the East End. I can stay with Lola until this all blows over, hope I can keep my job and school afloat, and wait for Mom to get sprung from jail.

Yeah, I know my plan isn't exactly air-tight, but it's a start…

Well, not really…

I plop down on a bench in the garden with a sigh. This feels so… _weird_. I thought I would get used to it by now, but I've lived in the East End for far too long to adopt this as my new normal. Being outside in a large open space is the closest to familiarity that I can get. Except this garden isn't inhabited by people and I haven't heard a gunshot yet.

Damn, I miss that.

I scan the garden, looking for some sign of life. I've had limited contact with people these past few days, and the extrovert inside me is dying for some human interaction.

As soon as I spot Damian Wayne sitting by some headstones a few feet away, that feeling dissipates.

You know what? Human interaction is overrated.

I get up off the bench, intending to go back inside. I don't want to talk to him, and I'm positive he doesn't want to talk to me either. He's made that _very _clear.

Not that I care or anything.

Despite my resolve to petulantly ignore his presence as he has done to me time and time again, I glance back at him briefly as I'm walking away. A small part of me wonders what he's doing out here. I'm not sure why I'm curious at all; maybe it's the boredom finally getting to me.

Anyways, when I look closely, I can see a sketchbook on his lap and a pencil in his hand. The pencil is frozen between his fingers and lightly resting on the paper, just barely touching the surface of it. His brow is creased in what I can only guess to be frustration, like he's not quite sure what to do. However, at the angle he's holding the paper, I can't quite see what's on it.

That annoying curiosity of mine is officially piqued.

I turn my body back around and tiptoe closer to Damian, doing my damndest to be quiet. I just want to see what it is he's drawing. That's all. I'm just going to see what he's sketching, _then _I'll go back inside. In and out. He won't even notice I'm here. As if he's noticed the fact that I'm here before.

I squint at the paper as I inch closer. The outline sketch is there, that much I can see. Well, barely. But what that sketch is of, I'm not sure. It kind of looks like a flower, I think… Or a tentacle monster. But he doesn't strike me as the type to draw a giant octopus, so I'm guessing he's attempting to draw a flower.

"Do you mind?"

I look up from the quizzical sketch, my eyes locking with Damian's cold, icy blue irises that seem to be eternally unimpressed. I must have stepped a little bit too close…

Well, there goes that plan.

Playing it off as my intention from the very beginning, I crack a small smile as his gaze on me just sharpens. It makes me chuckle a bit that he thinks he can intimidate me. If I can't make a quick escape, then I might as well make the best of this.

"Fancy seeing you here… You know, in your own back yard…"

_Smooth, Dee. Real smooth._

Damian rolls his eyes and looks back at his sketchbook, his pencil still in a stationary position between his long, nimble fingers.

"You can leave now," he responds monotonously. Well then… Rude.

The Wayne family charm must have skipped a generation.

Ignoring his demands, I sit down right by his side, reveling in the annoyed scowl he sends my way. He is going to have to get used to my presence here whether he likes it or not, and I'm _so_ going to enjoy reminding him of that fact.

In case it isn't already obvious, I can be rather annoying when I want to be. And right now, my boredom is urging me to experiment by pushing a few more of his buttons, just to see what might happen.

"Do you _want _something?" he snaps, not even bothering to look up from his sketchpad. Normally, I would snap back with something just for the sake of the argument, but I'm too distracted by his barely there sketch. If the faded pencil tracks are any indication, he's tried and failed a few times over at getting his basic sketch down. Either he doesn't know what to draw or he just can't draw at all.

"Having some trouble?" I ask, still staring down at the half-blank piece of paper on his lap.

"What's it to you?" he replies dismissively. I choose to ignore his less-than-friendly tone and swiftly usurp the pencil from him grip. He responds with a growl of annoyance, reaching out to try stealing it back from me, but I am having none of that.

"Not so fast, Wayne," I scold, holding the pencil as far away as I can from the much larger boy. "I'm just trying to help you."

At last, it seems I've caught his attention in a way other than annoying him. He raises a skeptical eyebrow, faint amusement in his eyes.

"And how might you do that?"

I can sense the challenge in his tone, like he doesn't think I could possibly know anything about art. And, well, he's half right. I suck at art so bad that I have to sit down and count to 10 to calm down every time I try to draw a tree. But there's no way I'm going to tell _him_ that. When I'm challenged, admitting to defeat is not an option.

"You're trying too hard," I blurt out, feeling a tiny spark of accomplishment when I manage to snatch the sketchpad away from him as well. "You need to let yourself go. Just look at whatever it is you want to draw and _feel_, don't think."

At this, Damian snorts.

"That was the most cliché thing I have ever heard in my life," he scoffs, grabbing his sketchpad and pencil back.

"Just _think_ about it," I insist, my frustration at him growing. "Art is all about expressing yourself and letting your emotions out onto a page. You can't do that when you're overthinking it. You don't need to think in order to draw. You need to _feel _it, not just _see _it. Anyone can look at something, but not everyone can get inspired by it. Look at whatever it is you're trying to draw and let your feelings take over. Figure out how it makes you feel. Get excited about it. Get _inspired_. You know what I mean?"

When I stop my impassioned rambling and look back up at Damian, I see him staring at me unabashed, his stony expression unreadable. His icy blue eyes seem to bore right through me, causing me to look down at the grass with a burgeoning blush spreading across my cheeks. I don't know why, but being the focus of Damian's attention just makes me… uncomfortable.

I've never done well under the spotlight.

"Yeah," he murmurs, the smirk obvious in his tone. "I know what you mean."

I look back up at him and offer up a small smile myself, my discomfort slowly melting away.

Maybe he's not such a bad guy after all…

* * *

**A/N: I have to admit, it was a bit of a filler chapter, but I felt like it fit pretty well. And I just love dropping hints about Dee's past.**

**As always, follows, favorites, and reviews are more than welcome. Until next time, dear readers! :)**


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hey guys! I'm gonna cut to the chase and give you this chapter because I am exhausted and I really wanna go to bed. So please enjoy!**

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**Damian's POV**

"Explain to me again _why _exactly _she_ is here?" I growl at my father while he types away on his computer deep in the bowels of the Bat Cave. He doesn't even bother to look up from his work as he answers me.

"_She_ needs our protection until the serial killer is apprehended. She's in danger. I already told you this, Damian. The Manor is the safest place for her at the moment. If anyone tries to make an attempt on her life, we'll be here to defend her."

I narrow my eyes at the back of Father's head. That was decidedly _not _the answer I was searching for. This… _girl_ has been here for a week now. An entire week I've had to suffer though her presence looming over me everywhere I go. A week I've had to go to bed each night knowing she's lounging in the room right across from mine. A week I've been going out of my way to prevent another unfortunate run-in. I shouldn't have to sneak around my own home like some sort of criminal just to avoid being forced to engage her in conversation again. I've had enough of it.

Either she goes or _I _go.

"And why would she not be safe in a secure juvenile facility?" I ask tensely. Father takes a break from his rigorous typing to glance back at me. He opens up his mouth, as if he plans on giving me an explanation for this ridiculous living arrangement, but he quickly shuts it. Instead, he simply reaches out and taps the 'enter' key on his keyboard.

Immediately, the computer screen floods with image documents that spread out across the monitor. All of them are the same premise. A young girl lay post-mortem in the street, clothed in nothing but her undergarments and covered in her own slightly congealed blood that once gushed from her open neck. Each picture is a different girl, but they are all in the exact same position. Their arms are spread out at their sides and their legs are wide open, almost as if they're making a snow angel. Their eyes staring at the sky, glassy in death, and their skin a sickish pale color.

It's nothing I haven't seen before.

However, it is not the brutality of the killings that alarms me. It is the amount of pictures that came up.

It covers a good portion of the already large screen.

"He's upping his average of kills already," Father informs me, turning back to his files. "Five girls in the past 2 _days_. Either he's much more intelligent than we originally thought, or he isn't working alone. No matter what it is, he is more of a threat now than ever. He's sending letters to the GCPD mocking them for their inability to track him down. They've given him an official name; the East End Ripper."

_East End Ripper?_

Hm. Cliché, but well fitting. Much better than just the East End Killer.

There's been plenty of _those_.

"We can't risk leaving his only surviving witness in an institution where people are in and out on a daily basis. It's a risk I am not willing to take. At least in here, she's under our protection. And until the suspect is apprehended, it's going to stay that way."

He turns his chair around to look me straight in the eyes, his face as cold and hard as the stalactites lining the cave walls.

"You are going to do more than just tolerate her presence here. You are going to be civil and courteous to her. She is a guest in her home and I expect you to treat her as such. Are we clear?"

Father's firm tone leaves no room for negotiations. As always, his word is law in this household. But that has never stopped me from questioning his decisions before.

"She shouldn't be our responsibility!" I hiss. "This case should be in the hands of the GCPD, therefore making the girl _their _burden to carry! I don't see why –,"

"She is staying here and that is final," Father interrupts, his tone harsh and strong. "The GCPD is already scrambling to break up the human trafficking ring coming into Gotham. They don't have the time to devote themselves to this case in the way it requires. We, however, do."

Father visibly rolls his eyes, shaking his head at me.

"I still don't understand what it is about her that bothers you so much. She's a well-mannered and quiet girl. I barely even notice she's here."

I struggle to find words that can properly describe my disdain for her presence in my house. At least, words that would satisfy my father. I don't feel the _need_ to explain myself. I'm just… not comfortable with her being here. I'm not comfortable with seeing her while I'm out of uniform. I feel like I'm baring my very soul to this girl I barely even know by inviting her into my home, my inner sanctum. Seeing her out of uniform is like seeing her when I'm completely stark naked.

I'm not fond of letting people get this… _close_.

"I just don't like it, okay?" I mumble. "I don't like sharing my area with a complete stranger. It's uncomfortable."

Father raises an eyebrow at me.

"That's not a viable reason to kick her out, Damian."

I roll my eyes.

Why couldn't that be a viable reason? I live here, she doesn't. Doesn't _my _comfort in this situation matter?

"Fine," I groan, letting the topic drop at last. "I guess I will tolerate her presence… Maybe… Perhaps… _If I have to_."

Father lets out a small chuckle and swivels his chair back to face the computer, focusing his energy back on his work.

"Good. We're in agreement then. And speaking of Dee, I want you to do me a favor…"

'Dee' and 'favor' in the same sentence? I'm not sure I like where this is going at all…

"What, Father?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. Father turns around in his chair to look at me with a small smirk gracing his normally stoic face.

"Well, Alfred and I are both going out later…"

I have a feeling I know what he's going to say, even before he opens his mouth.

And I don't like it at all.

* * *

My eyes scan the floor of the guest room where Dee is currently residing, pretending to have some sort of interest in the bland wood panels. I want nothing more in this moment than to leave this room. Hell, I want to leave this house. But Father insists I check up on our 'guest' while he and Pennyworth are out, and who am _I_ to question Father's will, right?

Why a sixteen year old girl needs to be checked up on like a senior citizen at a retirement home is beyond me. What could she possibly do? Fall and break a hip?

"Do you require anything?" I ask in the politest tone I can possibly muster, which barely passes as polite. She gives me a small smile in response. I'm not sure why exactly it bothers me, but it does.

Why does she insist on being kinder to me the more I'm rude to her? It's like she knows exactly how to get under my skin. It's... infuriating and intriguing at the same time. The only other person who has ever tried the 'kill them with kindness' method with me is Grayson. But she is nothing like Grayson.

Thank God for that.

"I'm fine," she replies as she plays with the fringes of the bed covers. "You?"

I wasn't aware I opened up the door for a discussion.

"Fine," I snap back. "Just peachy. Good talk, Dee. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more important things to do than do a bed check for someone who should be able to take care of herself."

I regret my words when her lips slowly curl into a frown.

"Would it kill you to at least _pretend_ you don't hate me?" she asks angrily. Her brow is furrowed and her arms are folded across her chest in a defiant manner. I marvel at how quickly she went from soft-spoken to furious, like a switch was flipped in her.

"I don't _hate _you," I admit through clenched teeth. "I'm just not necessarily thrilled about your presence in my home."

She scoffs and unfolds her arms.

"That makes two of us, rich boy."

A manor isn't good enough for a girl from the slums of the city?

Hm.

She's quite the piece of work, isn't she?

"Are we not accommodating enough for your tastes, princess?" I ask in a haughty voice dripping with sarcasm. She simply smiles back at me. An angry, tight lipped smile that tells me she is having none of it.

"I was sorely disappointed with the lack of mint on my pillow," she replies sardonically, leaning back to lay her body flat on the mattress. "I'm afraid I have no choice but to give this hotel a very strongly worded review on my blog."

I can't help it; I let out a small chuckle and shake my head at her. Her dramatics are more entertaining than I thought they'd be. The nagging urge to strangle her is slowly ebbing away.

"Would you like some caviar as well? Maybe a joy ride in our Porsche?"

I expect her to snap back at me with a continuation of our witty banter, but she doesn't even seem to acknowledge the fact that I spoke. Instead, her head perks up in an almost violent motion, like she's been smacked across the face, and her eyes scan the area suspiciously.

"Did you hear a noise?" she asks with narrowed eyes.

I didn't.

That's strange… I'm always aware of my surroundings. I hear everything that goes on around me. You can never be too prepared.

I whip my head around to focus on the door, listening in more closely. I hear the clacking of Titus's nails on the hardwood floor, the whoosh of wind flying through an open window…

And the cracking sound of glass being smashed into a million tiny pieces.

My instincts from my many years as Robin kick in, urging me on. I immediately jump into action, marching over to Dee's bed and grabbing her by the arm, hauling her stiff body up to my level.

"Hide _now_," I hiss in her ear, pushing her roughly in the direction of the walk-in closet across from us. She braces herself against the wall, rubbing her sore arm and glaring at me.

"I'm _not _hiding in the closet like a coward," she snaps back in a whisper, her eyes darting around as if she's afraid someone will hear her. I scowl deeply. I do not have time nor the patience to deal with her bull-headed ways, not now. Reaching out, I attempt to grab her by the arm again. She tries to dodge by shimming away from my hand, but I'm far too fast for her. I grip her arm so tightly I'm almost sure she'll have finger-shaped bruises later as I shove her squirming body into the closet. I quickly slam the doors shut behind me.

"Stay put!" I demand. Before she has a chance to argue with me, I storm out the door and click it locked behind me. If that doesn't hold her, I don't know what will. With a deep breath and a fighting stance set in place, I turn to face the end of the hallway.

Only to be knocked off my feet by a large, muscular body crashing into my own.

I go down hard, having the wind knocked out of me when I hit the hardwood floor. Glaring up at my masked attacker, I let out a feral growl.

He doesn't realize how grievous his error is.

"Sorry 'bout that, pretty boy," he drawls, his thick Jersey accent unmistakable to my trained ears. "But I know you Waynes are harboring the girl. If you'll just hand her over, we can all forget this ever –,"

I cut him off by hooking my leg on his and pulling hard, tearing him down to my level.

The scumbag wheezes when he hits the ground and at once, attempts to get back up. But I'm ready for him. I get up before he gets the chance and deliver a sharp kick to his ribs. He clutches at his injured middle and wheezes even more, the pathetic waste of a life-form. Snarling, I reach down to give him a powerful right-hook right across the jaw. Flecks of blood splatter out of his mouth and dribble onto the wood floor like red raindrops. It gives me a sick sense of pleasure.

_-tt-_

If the East End Ripper really wanted his target dead, he should have sent a more capable man to finish the job. He must have underestimated the Wayne family. We're just ignorant rich pricks to the outside world.

Good.

I lean my head down, getting close enough to this scum's face to smell the sweat, cheap cologne, and fear all oozing out of his pores.

"Tell your boss that the Wayne boy knows simple self-defense, unlike _you_," I hiss in his ear. When he gives a slow, painful nod – along with a small whimper of pain – I kick him in the head. Not hard enough to kill him, of course. Just hard enough to give him a nice, long trip into glorious unconsciousness.

"And never call me 'pretty boy' again," I add as an after-thought.

"Wow," I hear a gasp from behind me. I know who it is before I even turn around.

Why does that damn girl insist on defying my orders? I do not remember telling her they were _optional_.

I want nothing more than to smack some sense into the thick skull of hers.

"I told you to stay in your room," I hiss, grabbing her by the shoulders. She shrugs my hands off, but stares at me with this wide-eyed, opened mouth expression in a brief moment of wonder that somehow makes her look younger. Dare I say it… _cute_?

No. Cute is for kittens, not her.

"How did you do that?" she asks in a breathy whisper, as if she's still scared there might be more intruders to follow. I give a noncommittal shrug.

"Father required me to take self-defense classes," I lie smoothly. "He said it was necessary for all members of our family. With wealth comes many people who are willing to use force in order to take it from you."

Dee's eyes widen and she points behind my shoulder.

"Damian…"

I turn around, placing my body in front of hers as a shield.

There, climbing through the window previously broken by the pathetic piece of slime at my feet, are three man dressed in identical ski-masks and all black clothing.

I sure as hell hope they're as unskilled and weak as their friend before them.

* * *

**A/N: We finally get some action! Yay!  
**

**As always, reviews, follows, and favorites are MORE than welcome. You have no idea how much they make me smile. And feel free to tell your friends about it! :)**

**Bye!**


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hey guys! I'm sorry it's taken me a while to update. School is coming to a close, so I'm a bit loaded with end of the year work. But I've been working on this chapter for a while and I think it's one of my best, so I hope you like it!**

**On a side note, I've been thinking of renaming this story, and I've come up with two possible titles, both song titles that I feel fit the story:**

**Don't Fear The Reaper**

**The Kids Aren't Alright**

**It's just a thought.**

**Anyways, on with the story!**

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**Dee's POV**

Assassins.

I've just encountered assassins.

Actual, real life _assassins_ in black bodysuits and ski masks. The type you see in the old action movies.

These are officially the strangest few weeks of my life. Nothing will ever compare to this crap storm of complete madness.

First I met a serial killer in the middle of his latest murder, then I was ripped away from my home and my mother and basically everything else I've ever known, then _the _Bruce Wayne and his demon spawn – I'm sorry, I mean _son_ – took me in, and now his home is being overrun by assassins?

I miss my old, boring life where nothing even vaguely interesting happened unless it was in the book I was reading.

"Stay behind me," Damian mutters in my ear as he turns around to face the masked men in front of us. I'm not sure what prompts me to obey; following his command of standing behind him like a coward in the face of danger goes against everything I believe in. Yet I can't force my legs to move. Maybe it's the fact that I've never faced anything so intimidating before. Maybe it's the fact that I'm still reeling from how skilled of a fighter Damian is.

Or maybe it's because I have this sinking feeling that these men are here for _me_.

Whatever it is, my feet stay firmly planted to the ground, as if they're super-glued to the hardwood flooring. I don't move, I don't breathe, I don't even dare _blink_ out of fear that I'll miss something. No matter how loud my inner voice screams and shouts and curses, I can't go forward and help Damian. But from what I saw earlier, he doesn't need my help. I would probably only hinder him rather than help him. Some shabby self-defense skills learned on the streets don't compare to his graceful martial arts prowess.

'Self-defense classes' my _ass_. That kind of skill is something I see in those old karate movies Mom rents from that shady video store down the block sometimes.

Er, _rented _sometimes, I mean...

It feels so wrong to refer to her in the past tense as if she's dead, but that's the only appropriate way to refer to her now. She's in prison at the moment; I doubt she'll get to enjoy renting a cheesy old Bruce Lee flick again for a _very_ long time…

But I digress.

Damian bumps me further behind him with his shoulder and I stumble backwards like I weigh nothing at all. I have to place my hand against the wall behind me to keep myself from falling flat on my ass. A blush tints my cheeks as I straighten myself out against the wall.

I'm better than this. I know I am. I should be helping him. Why am I frozen in fear?

Damian approaches the small group of masked intruders nonchalantly with his chin turned up, as if this is a situation he encounters every other week. His amount of poise and finesse makes me think he does.

With how secretive he is, I really wouldn't be surprised.

"You won't fare much better than your friend," he warns the three men advancing towards him. "If you have even a small amount of common sense in those thick heads of yours, then you'll turn back now. But if you don't, I can promise you I will show _no _mercy."

The sullen, quiet boy who went out of his way to avoid me is gone, replaced by a fierce, dangerous warrior who is hell bent on protecting me.

Or maybe he's just looking out for himself.

Either way, I can hardly believe what I'm seeing.

The bulkiest man in the small group begins walking forward slowly, with purpose and a certain level of arrogance behind his steps. He stares Damian down with narrowed eyes, a look which Damian returns with just as much – if not more – venom in his stare. As the exchange occurs, I finally feel life finally return to my body. My feet shuffle forward to stand by Damian's side. He doesn't even notice. He's too busy trying to intimidate a man much larger than himself.

"Just make it easier on yourself and hand over the girl," he demands, his eyes skirting over towards me. So they _are _here for me. It causes a ripple of fear to run down my spine, but I refuse to let it show. I shuffle a little closer to Damian, who just now notices I've disobeyed his orders to stay behind him. He turns his head slightly in my direction with a glare. I glare back. If he thinks I'm going to follow his instructions blindly, then he knows even less about me than I thought.

It should be obvious to him by now that I'm not exactly the best at following instructions.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Damian growls in response, his arm sweeping out in front of me in a protective gesture. Though I'm flattered he's thinking of me – like he has much of a choice in the matter – I'm annoyed that he seems to think I can't protect myself. In my life, I'm always the protector, not the protect-ee. Having the role reversed on me is… uncomfortable, to say the least.

I'm so used to depending on myself to watch my own back. Having someone else do that for me just doesn't feel _right_.

"Don't make me use force, rich boy," the leader growls, all hints of mock politeness fading from his tone. Damian just smirks; an arrogant, maddening smirk that I want to smack off his face.

"Go ahead. I dare you."

Is he _crazy_?! It's the two of us against 3 men who look like Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime compared to the lean man sprawled across the floor. The last thing we should be doing is pissing this dude off. If I've learned anything from living in the East End for over 10 years, it's that the only way to survive in this world is to keep your mouth firmly shut and avoid confrontation at all costs unless you're sure you can win.

It's not exactly a rule I'm all that good at following, but a broken rib and a few black eyes have taught me how far I can push my limits before it backfires on me. And this? _This_ will _definitely _backfire on me.

A sick smirk stretches across the leader's face as he takes another step forward, getting right in Damian's space. But Damian, the brave little idiot, doesn't back down an inch. I shrink almost imperceptibly in my spot, prepared for a big blow out fight.

But the distant sound of the front door slamming shut from downstairs seems to snap us all out of the trance we're stuck in.

Mr. Wayne is home.

The assassin finally gives ground, backing up in horror. I'm not sure what it is about the presence about another person in the house scares them so much. Maybe they don't want many witnesses while trying to dispose of just one. Ha, ironic, isn't it?

Whatever their reasoning is, when their leader gives a little wave of the hand, they all run back to the window like a fire has just been lit underneath their asses.

Oh no, I am _not_ letting them get away just so they can report back to their boss and try again. I was dragged to Wayne Manor thinking I'd be safe from a serial killer's retribution, and I'll be damned this little visit changes anything.

In a blurry flash, I charge forward and grab the expensive looking vase on the hallway's end table, almost toppling over from the sheer weight of the massive thing. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, blocking out everything else except myself and my target. I barely even hear Damian's voice from behind me, demanding I stop. It's blocked out by the sound of blood pumping through my veins. I watch in what seems to be slow motion as the vase flies out of my grasp, hurdling forward until it makes contact with one of the assailants' heads. I gasp as it shatters loudly and falls to the ground, taking its victim along with it.

The only thing I can do is stare wide-eyed at the unconscious man crumpled into a heap on the ground as his friends readily jump back out the window, leaving him behind. I'm frozen in my spot, stricken by the thought that I may have accidentally killed the guy. Oh god, I hope that's not the case…

I've done a _lot_ of things I'm not proud of, but I don't want homicide to be added to the already long list.

"Are you _insane_?" Damian growls from my side. I turn my head towards him slightly, opening my mouth to give him some sort of explanation, but I'm unable to form words. My head is spinning. My mouth goes dry. I can hear my rapid heartbeat in my ears. Damian doesn't wait for me to articulate an answer. Instead, he grabs me by the upper arm. _Hard_. This is enough to jolt me out of the shock induced stupor I was in earlier. I tense up and glare at the hand gripping my arm.

I _hate _being touched. Especially without my permission.

"I told you to stay back!" he hisses. "You could have gotten yourself killed, you fool!" I violently jerk my arm away from his tight grasp, ignoring the slight throbbing sensation. Experience tells me that a small bruise will blossom on my sensitive skin soon enough. However, I squash the urge to rub at my arm. Instead, I push Damian back by his chest, just as hard as he grabbed me. I won't let anyone think I don't give as good as I get. I ain't no sissy.

"You think I don't know that?" I growl. Damian gapes at me, or maybe just at the fact that I actually had the guts to push him. Either way, I don't give him any room to respond.

"You think I wasn't scared out of my wits?" I ask, shivering ever so slightly from the waning adrenaline rush. "Well, you're wrong. I was about ready to piss my pants. Hell, I _still _feel about ready to piss my pants! But at least I stopped one of them from escaping. You were about ready to watch them jump out the window and just let them come back later to finish the job. So don't you dare get on _my _case for 'almost getting myself killed'. Are you forgetting that _you _were so ready to jump right into the fray and practically _invite _those guys to beat you to a bloody pulp! From where I'm standing, it looks like we're _both _idiots, huh, rich boy?"

I exhale shakily after my long-winded speech, feeling weak in the knees at this point as the adrenaline drains from my system completely. Damian is still staring. His icy blue eyes seem to bore right in me like cobalt daggers, piercing through my hazel-green irises. I can see every wrinkle around his eyes, the angry tightening of the muscles in his jaw, the deep furrow of his brows; we are _way _too close for comfort.

Heavy footsteps bounding upstairs at neck-break speed seem to snap us both out of our weird, impromptu staring contest. Thank the lord.

Or rather, thank Mr. Wayne.

The muscles in his body are tense underneath his expensive Italian suit. I can tell he's ready for an attack. The guard dog gene must be dominant in this family. Either that or they just enjoy getting an opportunity to beat the ever loving crap out of people. I'm really hoping it's the first option.

"What happened here?" Mr. Wayne asks gruffly, his eyes darting around back and forth at the two unconscious men sprawled out across the floor. The passive, almost unimpressed expression painted on his proud features causes me to blink at him and gape in surprise. I feel like I'm just reading him incorrectly. Yeah, that's it. It must be. Because if I'm not just imagining things, that means he's totally out of his goddamn mind.

Does _that_ run in this family as well?

"Assassins," Damian blurts out, stepping out in front of me like a shield. It only proves to annoy me. The assassins are gone, I don't need a knight in shining armor to ride in on his noble stead and save me from the terrible dragon.

If you ask myopinion, I _never _needed that

"A group of them. The rest fled when they heard you return. We were able to incapacitate a few of the weaker ones." He shakes his head a bit, snorting. "Though they were all very unimpressive."

That's bold talk for a boy who was getting on my case about 'almost getting myself killed' not 5 minutes ago.

Mr. Wayne nods absentmindedly, glancing back down at the unconscious men.

"Alfred?" he calls from over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir?" the kindly British butler responds from downstairs.

Mr. Wayne stares back down at the unconscious men, and then slowly glances up to look right at me. I shrink back underneath his gaze in spite of my already wounded pride. His cloudy blue eyes are just… piercing. Harsh. Like they've seen Hell without even flinching.

I have a feeling there's a lot about both Wayne boys that I have yet to learn.

"Call Commissioner Gordon," he calls down to Alfred, still glancing in my direction.

"We have a few… unwanted guests."

* * *

**A/N: You have no idea the amount of joy I've been taking in planning this story out. I can't wait to get to some of my favorite parts!**

**I hope you enjoyed, and please, feel free to leave a review. I seriously THRIVE on reviews.**


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N: I'm going to keep this short and sweet because my cold medicine is starting to kick in and I'm exhausted.**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

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**Damian's POV**

It's always under the duress of interrogations when criminals show their true selves. The calm, arrogant façade they present to their arresting officer quickly melts away when they see the intimidating glare of Batman's cowl covered whites staring deeply into their terrified eyes. A few minutes of the glare is enough to coax them into squealing like pigs.

It's a fascinating thing to witness; the fragility of a man's will, how quickly it dissolves while under Batman's scrutiny. Fear shows a person's true colors in a way nothing else can. Batman instills that fear in the hearts of men.

I, however, do not always have that same effect on people.

I'm not completely unintimidating. No longer am I the 4'6", 84 pounds 10 year old barely able to make it up to Grayson's waist. I'm now 17 years old and reached my growth spurt as soon as puberty set in. The years have been kind to my physical appearance, but apparently not the level of fear I'm able to instill in others.

That is, if the complete focus on Batman by the interrogation subject is any indication.

Father decided to bring me into the interrogation room with him to question the assassin Dee rendered unconscious after yesterday's… _incident_. It was an opportunity to test my intimidation skills now that Father no longer fears I may lose my temper and resort to bodily harm.

Any man who invades _my _home is damn lucky I have learned how to tame my volatile temper, or else he would have ended up face down on the floor with my boot on his skull the minute he mouthed off to me.

Though I was able to keep my temper under control, the interrogation did not go as smoothly as I was hoping for. The pathetic excuse for a hit-man paid no mind to me or my threats of what I would do to a very specific and vital part of his anatomy if he did not tell me what I needed to know. He merely rolled his eyes, and even had the audacity to scoff at me, as if I was a child playing dress up in his father's clothes. The condescending, holier-than-thou attitude enraged me. Father must have sensed I was near snapping, because he placed a hand on my shoulder and pulled me back, resuming the interrogation himself.

The prisoner's resolve snapped within minutes, which brings us to the present.

"Let's try this one more time," Batman growls lowly, narrowing his eyes and pressing the nose of his cowl closer to the trembling prisoner's sweat-drenched face. "You're going to tell me who sent you to Wayne Manor and I _won't _make the guards look the other way while I take you out to the most deserted section of the East End and break your legs. Start talking."

All color drains from the convict's face at what he and I both know is a very real threat. Rumors of all the harsh punishments Batman inflicts on the most stubborn interrogation subjects, true or not, spreads throughout Gotham's underground like wild-fire. And from the look on this scumbag's face, he is no stranger to these rumors. Though I am satisfied that Father managed to break this coward's petulance in half like a twig, a part of me cannot help but be bitter over the fact _my _threats could not even put a crack in his maddeningly arrogant exterior. I know I am not Batman.

But that doesn't mean I enjoy being reminded of that fact.

"I-I don't know, man!" the felon gaps, his beady eyes darting around madly. "He never gave me his name, I swear to God! He just gave me the address and told me what to do! I never even saw his face, I swear!"

The beads of sweat roll collecting around his forehead begin to roll down his face like tear stops as Batman's glare hardens, his eyes narrowing like small white daggers poised to shoot out of his cowl. I can tell the interrogation is finally going in the direction we are aiming for. The cracks have been added to the surface, and he is soon going to burst. It is only a matter of time…

5… 4… 3… 2…

"He sent a girl!" he blurts out, trying to push his steel chair as far away from Batman as possible.

I smirk.

I'm almost disappointed that my timing was a second off.

His will is even weaker than I anticipated.

"Go on," Batman growls, tightening his grip on the front of the hit-man's shirt.

"When I say I never saw him, I really do mean it," he states breathlessly. "He sent a girl to give me the details and cut of the money up front. I got the job from one of his friends. I've never actually seen _him_! Nobody sees him!"

Batman and I both raise an eyebrow at the bold statement. If the detective training Father has spent 7 years drilling into my skull has taught me anything, it is that every criminal, genius psychopaths and common punks alike, are not immune to mistakes. The East End Ripper has some sort of close compatriot.

It's just a matter of painstakingly connecting the dots back to said person.

"What did this girl look like?" Batman drills gruffly.

"I-I don't know. Dark blonde hair, blue eyes, skinny, probably 20 at the oldest. I never got her name. She never gave it up. She looked scared, but I didn't think much of it, ya know? Everybody is scared of the Ripper. _Everybody_."

I snort, earning a small reprimanding glare from Father.

I am most definitely _not _scared of a small time, narcissistic, wanna-be Jack the Ripper who thinks he can outsmart the World's Greatest Detective, and I look forward to seeing him go down.

_Hard_.

"What about the man who sent the job your way?" I jump in, not about to be sidelined on one of the few interrogations I've ever been able to participate in. The suspect's eyes dark flit over to me, his posture relaxing once he's no longer subject to Batman's hostile glare.

"I dunno," he replies, some of the anxiety melting from his tone. "He was average looking, I guess. 'Bout 6 foot even, dark hair, dark eyes, scrawny little thing. I never got his name either. Friend of a friend of a friend. I couldn't track him down if I tried."

Slowly, a cruel, pleased smile begins to stretch across his lips as our eyes lock.

"By the time you find him, there won't be anyone _left _to save."

* * *

The drive back to the cave was perhaps the longest drive I have ever been on. In reality, it couldn't have been more than 45 minutes. It felt closer to 4 hours with the suffocating silence permeating the air. Both Father and I too far into thought to acknowledge each other, though I'm sure we're not thinking about the same thing. I can practically hear the gears turning in Father's head as he thinks of ways to gather witnesses in this case and track down this 'friend'. But my mind is in a completely different direction.

I'm deep in thought about Dee.

Why in the world I'm wasting my energy thinking about that girl, I have no idea. But my mind betrays me with constant thoughts of her.

How she's fairing after the attack, how we'll protect her in the future, whether or not I should initiate a conversation with her when we get back home…

Why am I even _considering _conversing with her of my own free will? Have I completely lost my mind? Maybe I'm suffering from a fever and the delirium is beginning to set in. That seems like the most logical assumption. Why else would I wish to talk to the girl of whom I've spent so much of my time avidly avoiding? It's not as if she and I are even on the best of terms as it is. She'll most likely be as receptive to me as I have been to her, which is not at all.

But if she's going to be living in my home, right across from my room, then I _suppose _I'll have to speak to her eventually. She's not going to magically disappear, no matter how hard I wish for that very thing. So I may as well suck it up and make peace with her.

That doesn't mean I have to enjoy it, though.

So after changing out of my uniform in favor of a red sweatshirt and jeans, I trudge up two flights of stairs, bypassing the warm sanctuary of my room for the room straight across from it; the room where Dee is staying.

Hopefully not for long.

I cross the small distance between our doors and reach for the doorknob.

I stop short.

I can't just open her door. It may be my house, but I have no idea what she's doing in there. She could be changing her clothes for all I know.

The tips of my ears burn red hot at the mere notion of accidentally walking in on Dee undressing. I'm not sure I'd ever live down that amount of humiliation.

So, instead, I knock lightly. It's weak, barely there, and I would attempt again if I didn't hear a soft voice wafting over through the heavy oak door,

"Come in."

I turn the doorknob carefully in my rigid hands, pushing the door open and squinting against the natural light that floods from the room and into the hallway. When my eyes adjust, I see she's lying flat on her back on the pale white sheets, staring up at the wall with a blank expression on her face. The windows are open, filling the room with the pale light of a day winding down. The lily white curtains billow out from the slight breeze, as if they're reaching out to touch Dee.

I blink, suddenly feeling like a complete dolt for coming in here without having prepared anything to say. Especially when she turns her head in my direction, looking at me through big hazel eyes. I freeze up in my spot, carefully returning her gaze and waiting for her to be the one to break this silence. I have never been so uncomfortable before in my life.

Social interaction is such a chore.

"Cat got your tongue?" she whispers, giving a weak smile. I raise an eyebrow.

That's really the best she has?

Pity. I was expecting more witty banter from her.

"I simply came to check on you," I respond with a noncommittal shrug, entering the room and leaning on the wall across from the bed. "Do you require anything? Food? Water? More pillows? A warm towel and a face mask?"

She grins playfully and reaches her arm across the mattress, grabbing a pillow from the other side and flinging it at me. I catch it with ease and without breaking the smirk on my face, much to her chagrin. She groans and buries her head in her pillow.

"No faaaiiiirrrr."

My smirk widens slightly.

It's like a game around her. We play cat and mouse, tip-toeing around each other with playful banter and pretend annoyance, avoiding real conversation. We're keeping each other at arm's length for now, neither of us having any desire to get any closer than necessary, but still intrigued enough to keep up this teasing relationship.

And that's where it will remain.

Friends are more of a hassle than anything, really. Colin and Grayson are enough in my book.

"But now that you mention it…" she begins, raising her head up out of the pillow.

I swear on the lives of all the assassins in my mother's armada, I am _not _going to get her a warm towel and a face mask.

"I'd like to get out of this house for a while."

Hm.

I should have known she'd ask this eventually. She has yet to step foot outside the Manor since she has arrived here. Father took care of arranging for her school work to be brought to her, and I overheard a phone conversation she had with the person I am assuming to be her employer, in which she asked for time off. From how much she cringed and how little she was able to get her words in against the voice booming out of the receiver, I'm assuming her boss was not very happy about her absence.

I squash the twinge of guilt that comes from that thought.

It's not _my _responsibility to keep her job afloat.

"I'm afraid that isn't possible," I inform her. "Not unless you're accompanied by a chaperone to make sure you don't weasel your way into trouble yet again."

I expect to earn a giggle from her and a cliché retort such as 'I don't go looking for trouble, it finds me', but the only response I get is a grin. A mischievous, pleased grin that makes something foreign turn over in my stomach. I purse my lips at this new feeling.

It's strange and I'm not sure I enjoy it.

"Soooooo, what you're saying is…" she begins, rising from her bed and tip-toeing over to me, as if she fears Father or Pennyworth will hear her and walk in at any moment. She leans in towards me, closer, closer, closer… Until her lips are right next to my ear. I can feel her hot breath adding warmth to my already burning ears.

I silently curse my embarrassing tick. I'm Damian Wayne, son of the Bat and Talia al Ghul, grandson of the Demon; I should be above this.

"I could go out if you come with me?" she whispers.

I nod mutely, my breath catching in my throat when I feel her lips accidentally brush against the shell of my ear.

Much to my relief, she pulls her head back to look at me, running a hand through her light brown hair with a lopsided grin. Before I can regain my wits and pretend none of this ever occurred, she reaches out and grabs onto my hand.

"C'mon, rich boy. I'm gonna show you my side of the world."

* * *

**A/N: Summer is coming up soon for me so hopefully I'll have more time for updating. Please don't be shy to tell me what you thought of this chapter! :)**


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: I feel like it has been WAY too long since I updated. I missed you, readers! So, I have a teeny bit of news:**

**I'm planning on changing the name and cover art of the story. It just wasn't working for me. So, probably by the time you read this new chapter, the name of this story will be _Don't Fear The Reaper_. Yes, like the song.**

**Also, I just wanted to say another thank you to Indigo Elle. Your reviews always make my day. I've probably mentioned you in almost all my chapters already, but you're worth it.**

**Without further ado, here's the newest chapter!**

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**Dee's POV**

I'm not sure what I was expecting when I made my grand return to the East End with a billionaire teenager in tow. Of course, I was not expecting a glittering, gleaming East End, like Glenda the Good Witch decided to pay a visit in my absence. Maybe I expected to see an even more run down, filth ridden East End than before, as if my presence was somehow the guiding force behind the broken down neighborhood staying somewhat afloat.

I'm not nearly delusional enough to believe that, of course, but still…

It feels so long since I've been here, in my natural habitat, that I thought _something_ had to be different. But no; nothing was. It is almost exactly how it was when I viewed it through the tinted windows of a CPS van as I was being carted out against my will, as if it remained frozen in time until my return.

Music and a faint light still pour out of the café and filter into the streets, causing a young, seemingly tipsy couple to slow dance along on the sidewalk in a clumsy, yet adorable manner. The woman giggles, nearly falling flat on her ass as the man attempts to dip her down. They both end up falling to the sidewalk, dissolving in a fit of hysterical laughter.

A few girls in sky-high heels and thick makeup caked on their faces stroll along on the other side of the street, holding their hips in laughter as they whisper teenage gossip to each other in between giggles. Girls I went to school with what feels like years ago.

Two teenage boys play a game of cards, sitting on crates with a cardboard box in between them acting as their table. The fair haired boy slaps down a row of card with a victorious smile and pulls the small mountain of junk food collected in the middle towards his side of the box, earning a groan from the defeated dark haired boy.

A few feet away from the warring boys, a young man with a small patch of dark stubble leans against a brick wall with a sketchbook in hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His pencil moves across the paper at a rapid fire pace, a concentrated furrow in his brow. His neck is craned so far down into the paper that I don't think it has ever seen the light of day.

I take in my surroundings with a sigh of contentment.

_I'm home._

The stubborn rich boy next to me, however, seems far from impressed with my humble roots.

"Tell me again why you felt the need to drag me here?" he demands, his patience hanging on by a thread. I roll my eyes, but try not to let it spoil my mood. I didn't expect him to appreciate it. He grew up in the lap of luxury. Everything was handed to him on a silver platter, while I had to learn how to take joy in the simple things. He can't understand my world and I can't understand his.

But that doesn't mean I won't make sure this is a day he will never forget.

"You, Mr. Frowny Face, have to be here for my protection," I remind him with a sly grin, nudging him with my shoulder as we walk. "It's a Friday night, which means my friends are already waiting for me. There's no way I'm missing the Friday night tradition yet again just to sit in quiet, dull house all night."

Ahhhh, I've missed the Friday night after-shift ritual.

If the funny little crease in Damian's brow is any indication, he's wondering what the hell this entails. I have to stifle a laugh when I see the confusion written on his face. Though he's not looking at me, I flash my signature toothy smile in his direction. I'm struck by how foreign it feels on my face.

How long has it been since I smiled this way?

Reaching over, I grab Damian's hand and pull him along with me to speed up the process. Though I can hear his unhappy grumbles, he doesn't put up much of a fight as I pull him along down the street. My excitement is not easily dulled by his lack thereof. I've been waiting weeks to see my friends again, and I'm not going to let Mr. Grumpy Pants spoil the fun so quickly.

Who knows? He might end up dislodging the stick from his ass and having some fun himself.

It doesn't take long at all for us to reach the old apartment building on the corner of Lee and Meriwether, and I finally let go of his hand. The old, crumbling building is one of the many failed projects her in the East End, left to rot and decay by an uncaring city council. The decades of history behind its walls gone to waste. But just because it has been long since vacated does not mean that it cannot be put to good use.

I beckon a very confused looking Damian into the dark alley-way next to the apartment building. It's dark, damp, and it reeks of garbage, but it's a welcome sight to me after all these weeks far away from home.

"The building isn't structurally sound enough to actually go inside," I explain to a very disgusted looking Damian. "But what I'm looking for isn't inside."

Without any further explanation, I grab onto the rusted ladder attached to the side of the building and begin to climb. I can feel the cheap metal paint flaking off underneath my fingers as I pull myself up, one rung at a time. Half-way through, I begin to think Damian abandoned me to go back home to his comfy mansion in Crest Hill. It wouldn't surprise me. I'm amazed he's even put up with me thus far.

But my hunch is proved wrong when I hear the tell-tale rattling of the ladder being climbed below me. He's following behind like a dutiful puppy following its master.

I snort in amusement.

Rich boy is more adventurous than I've been giving him credit for.

Hauling myself up on the last rung, I observe the activities on the roof with a wide grin.

A fire is already lit in the mobile fire pit that by now permanently sits at the top of this building. Laughter and loud chatter echo throughout the night, sweeping closer and closer towards me at the end of the roof. A few open coolers, open and filled to the brim with drinks, are placed away from the fire. Big, fuzzy blankets are laid out, and I count 4 bodies sprawled out across them, their stomachs moving up and down in laughter. The smile on my face only widens.

Now I'm _really _home.

I bend my knees and push my hands onto the cold, hard concrete roof to help myself stand up on the edge. I can just barely hear Damian shuffle up behind me. His footsteps are like little mice, just barely scuttling across a floor. Soft and sneaky, but hesitant.

This must be his first time seeing such a different side to the putrid wasteland that the papers like to paint the East End as. There's two sides to every story.

"Hey, assholes!" I shout to my occupied friends. Four heads perk up and whip around simultaneously. I cock my head to the side and give them my signature smug little smirk that has gotten me in so much trouble in the past.

"You mind some company?"

It only takes a few seconds before the hooting and hollering starts back up again, my friends scrambling up from their resting places on their blankets and rushing over to me with a unanimous cry of "Dee!"

Before I know it, I'm surrounded by four bodies fighting over who gets to tug me their way like a ragdoll. They're all jabbering away in four very distinct different voice.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"We missed you!"

"I heard you were dead!"

"_I _heard CPS got their hands on you."

"I heard you went to juvie!"

"Hey, dead or not, you still owe me $20!"

"_Guys!_" I shout over the noise. Immediately, they all fall silent, waiting eagerly for my next words. As if I'm a celebrity or a god of sorts.

Well, according to the word on the street, I _did _rise from the dead…

"CPS _did_ get ahold of me, I _did _go to juvie, but no, I didn't die," I inform them. "I got fostered out of there, which is just a step above dying."

A few snorts of amusement and some mumbled agreements resonate from the small crowd, made up mostly of street kids who know the feeling well. But it's the small scuttling sound of converse shoes on concrete behind me that catches my attention. I almost completely forgot Damian was here.

Heh. I bet he's not used to being forgotten.

Welcome to my world, Wayne.

Reaching behind my back blindly, I grab ahold of what feels to be Damian's shirt. I earn a low grumble from the grumpy teen as I pull him forward in view of my now thoroughly confused friends.

"Guys," I drawl. "This is… um… the son of the guy who's currently fostering me, Damian. Guys, meet Damian. Damian, meet the guys."

The mood in the air is immediately tense. I can feel it coiling around me like a snake, restricting anymore words from escaping my throat. I can sense my friends' thought process already. He's clean cut, nicely dressed, and standing tall. It's obvious that he comes from money.

He doesn't belong here in our world, just like I don't belong in his.

"Wait… Aren't you Damian Wayne?" pipes up Tatiana Torres, my louder and more opinionated friend. "As in 'son of billionaire Bruce Wayne' Damian Wayne? 'Could buy the entire city of Gotham with your pocket change' Damian Wayne? _That _Damian Wayne?"

The rest of my friends fall silent as the realization dawns on them. Damian Wayne, the billionaire trust fund child, is here in the East End, where walking freely on the streets with money in your pocket constitutes a suicide attempt. My cheeks turn red in embarrassment as I realize how stupid this entire idea was. I'm lucky no one mugged us on the way here.

"Yes," Damian answers tersely. It's a simple response, leaving no room for conversation. And no one tries to start one, either.

Damian must be about as keen on my friends as they are on him.

For a split second of tense silence, I question why I even brought Damian here. It was a dumb decision, really. Just walking here with Richie Rich could have gotten me killed. It was stupid. _I _was stupid. I would be angrier at myself, but I'm used to it. Stupid decisions seem to be my forte.

Right as I'm about to pull Damian away from my friends and shuffle back to Wayne Manor with my tail between my legs, Lola steps forward with a wicked grin and a devious gleam in her sapphire blue eye. Bumping shoulders with Damian, she grabs his wrist so swiftly that I doubt he even noticed it as it happened.

"I like you," she decides with no prelude whatsoever. "You've got chutzpah. I think you and I are going to get along _very _well. C'mon. Let's get you a drink."

Lola pulls him forward towards the bonfire, flocked by the rest of our friends who are now chatting away with a renewed vigor.

_Now_ I remember why I love those assholes so much.

* * *

"So there I was, half naked, covered in flour, sitting on a tree branch that was starting to break, my neighbor's German shepherd was barking at me from below, and I still hadn't found my Gameboy Advance."

I shake my head and steal another sip of Lola's drink.

Diesel always has the weirdest stories.

Damian, who is sitting cross-legged between Ace and me, speaks up,

"What happened to the cheese-stick you were carrying?"

Diesel takes another swig from his beer and flips his dark, untamable hair out of his face, squinting at Damian critically. With the fire burning bright and strong behind him, he _almost_ looks intimidating.

"I dropped it while climbing the tree. Pay closer attention to the story, Wayne."

Damian scoffs, but continues to listen to the story. I, however, stop paying attention. He told me this story a long time ago. In fact, I'm fairly sure we've all heard this story at least twice. Or three times. Or twenty-seven times. But of course Diesel has to show off for the new guy. Especially when said new guy is rich.

Too bad Damian won't be buying any stereos or rip-off Rolex watches off of him anytime soon.

Instead of listening to Diesel drone on and on, I look around. Take in my surroundings.

Lola sits, practically on the edge of her seat – er, I mean her blanket. The corners of her mouth are raised up in a smile as she tilts the beer bottle up to her perfectly painted lips. No matter how many times she hears Diesel's stories, she is still enraptured by each repeat tale, like she's watching her favorite soap opera.

Tatiana leans her body in closer to Ace, resting her head on his shoulder. Ace, ever the stoic, barely even reacts except for a soft grunt of acknowledgment. Tatiana takes this as an invitation to snuggle closer to him, gripping onto his arm so tight that I worry about her cutting off his blood circulation. But Ace doesn't seem to mind. At least, if he does, he doesn't say it. But then again, Ace never says much of anything.

Damian sits with his spine straight and his eyes forward, completely focused on the story. He occasionally takes a swig from his water bottle, having rejected alcohol. I wish I had the same amount of self-control, but at least I'm just sharing with Lola instead of chugging my own bottle. A year or two ago, that wouldn't be the case…

"… So it turns out the Gameboy Advance was buried under the tree the entire time."

Tatiana claps sarcastically for the conclusion to a story she's probably heard hundreds of times before. Diesel turns his head towards her and shoots her the biggest 'die in a fire' look I've seen in quite some time. Those two can go at it like rabid dogs at times. One of them will end up killing the other one day. But as long as I'm around, today is not that day.

"Riveting story, Diesel," she pipes up. "But I'm not sure you've accomplished your goal of scoring another client."

She sticks her thumb out, pointing at Damian. Diesel gives me a pleading look, silently asking me to stop her from scaring away a potential customer. Especially a potential customer worth billions of dollars. That's what he sees people as; dollar signs. Walking money. Until you get to know him, of course. Then he sees you as a dollar sign with a personality.

"It was an interesting story…" Damian drawls out, taking a small sip from his water bottle as if to prolong the suspense. "But if your ultimate goal was to sell me something, you'll be disappointed to learn I neglected to bring my wallet with me."

Diesel just grins like the Cheshire cat and jumps up from his seat, weaseling his way in between Damian and me, nearly knocking me over in the process. I scoot closer to Lola, grabbing the drink out of her hand and taking another swig as I watch the master at work.

"Let me tell you a little something about the credit system, my friend."

There really is no place like home.

* * *

**A/N: Kudos to those of you who caught that Lee Meriwether reference.**

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter! As always, review, favorite and follow at your leisure. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's almost 3am and I should probably be heading to bed. Goodnight, readers!**


	13. Chapter 12

**A/N: OMIGOSH! It's been so long, you guys! I'm so sorry! I've been so busy with school and looking at colleges and theatre and everything else in my life, I've barely had time for recreational writing. But, I finally pulled through! I just hope I didn't lose you guys as my readers!**

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**Damian's POV**

I only feign listening as the dark haired boy they call Diesel explains to me how his 'credit system' operates. I have absolutely no interest in buying a knock-off Rolex or a pack of cigarettes most likely bummed off of homeless smokers. But the smooth talking teenager seems set on gaining me as a customer. I can see right through his thought process already. It doesn't take a detective to figure it out. I'm the son of the richest man in Gotham City, and here I am in the poorest, most crime ridden section of town. I _must _be rebellious and idiotic enough to be duped into buying some contraband items off of him.

These con artists seem to think they have everybody figured out.

But, I will admit, this trip isn't _all _bad.

I have been to the East End many times before, but always as Robin. Never as Damian Wayne. It's a strange feeling; being here on this rooftop, surrounded by teenagers that I would usually view as delinquents. But here I am, willingly spending my Friday night with them, as if they're old friends of mine.

As if I wouldn't be arresting some of them if I was here in uniform.

But, oddly enough, I'm not looking at them through Robin's eyes. I don't look at Diesel and see a con-artist. I don't look at Ace and see a drug dealer. I don't look at Lola and see a prostitute. Even though I can tell just by looking at them that they are all these things. I don't look at any of them and see the potential crimes they have committed.

When I look at them, all I see are teenagers who have welcomed me into their inner circle like I am one of their own.

This part of Gotham and the people who inhabit it are so foreign to me. Of course, I have seen the flip side of the East End while in uniform. It's a breeding ground for violent crimes. Robberies, rapes, and murders run rampant around here. But in all my years as Robin, nothing could have prepared me for encountering… _this_. I've never seen the East End – or all of Gotham, for that matter – as anything but a dirty hell hole full of unholy, monstrous creatures. But Dee offers a completely different perspective on the city that I call my home.

And I'm finding that I like it.

"Stop harassing the poor boy, Diesel," the girl that Dee called Tatiana interrupts. "Let him breathe."

I barely know this girl, but I shoot her a grateful look nonetheless. Diesel glares at her before walking off in Ace's general direction, muttering something about her presence being 'bad for business'. Tatiana gives a wide, toothy smile and flips her long brown hair back behind her shoulder, revealing her neck in a very low cut top. For the briefest of seconds, I think she might just be trying to charm me into being one of her 'clients', and my mouth prepares to form into a scowl. But from the spark of happiness in her chocolate brown eyes and the genuine dimples forming on her round cheeks, I know that her kindness is genuine.

When you're the heir to the Wayne fortune, genuine kindness is a rarity. I never thought I would have to come to the slums of Gotham to find it.

"He can be a pain in the ass sometimes," she jokes, gently elbowing me in the side. I tense up, but resist the urge to snap at her. Physical contact as a sign of platonic affection seems to be the norm for this group of friends. I suppose I should take it as a compliment. They're accepting me as an equal.

"He can be entertaining at times," I offer in response. The reply feels clumsy coming from my lips. I speak as if he's a close personal friend of mine and not just a boy I met a few hours before. I don't _know _him. I only know him on the level that a detective knows the subject he's analyzing.

Tatiana chuckles softly, shaking her head and glancing over at where Dee and Lola are standing, holding their hips in laughter. Lola appears to be tipsy, while Dee seems to be more in control of her actions and sharply aware of her surroundings. She wraps an arm around Lola's shoulders, gently pulling her to the side when she stumbles in her high heels. I can't hear what they're saying from a distance, but whatever it is that Dee said, it causes Lola to burst into a fit of giddy laughter. She puts her entire body into it, throwing her head back and slapping Dee on the shoulder in a playful manner. It doesn't take long for Dee to follow along, breaking out into a toothy smile and throwing her head back as well, almost knocking them off balance. I struggle to squash my own smile that is beginning to form at the sight of it.

The smile on Dee's lips is so wide, so genuine, it's almost too big for her face. I can think back to several times that she has smiled while in the Manor, but never like this. They've always been small grins and smirks she has cracked while trying to annoy me. But never the type of smile she's flashing right now. It lights up her whole face and causes her to glow with happiness. She looks…

"She really likes you, you know."

I blink myself back to reality, returning Tatiana's gaze. She has a smug expression on her face, as if she holds the key to the universe's most closely guarded secret. I simply stare back at her, rendered speechless for one of the first times in my life.

"… _What_?" I finally manage to spit out. Tatiana giggles slightly before nodding over to where Dee stands, wrestling a bottle away from Lola like a concerned mother. A small snort escapes my lips.

"Dee doesn't really take to people all that much," she admits with a grin. "The amount of people she trusts is limited to the people on this roof. That includes _you_, Wayne."

I scoff at her assumption. The thought of a girl like Dee – who I've avoided and argued with at every turn – putting her faith in me of all people, just sounds ridiculous. _Anyone _putting their faith in me is just ridiculous.

If not even Father can do it, why should I expect anyone else to?

"You must be mistaking me for someone else," I deadpan. Taking a few swigs of my water, I finish off each drop before tossing the empty bottle back into the cooler, silently praying that Tatiana will drop the subject altogether. It's intrusive and makes my stomach flip over in a way I'm not familiar with. But, sadly, I put too much faith in Dee's delinquent friends.

"Seriously, Wayne," she continues, the annoyingly cocky grin missing from her face. "Dee is my friend. I care about her. She cares about me. All of us here? We're like one big fucked up family, we look out for each other. When one of us gets hurt, the rest of us _bring_ the hurt. You get me?"

I nod slowly, having no earthly idea where she plans to go with this.

"She's been disappointed by too many people in her life already. You and I both know she has no trouble taking care of herself, but that doesn't mean I don't still look out for her. She's staying with you, right?"

I nod.

"Just do me a favor, Wayne. Don't disappoint her."

I'm not sure what to say in response. The way she says this, with such conviction and phrasing almost like a demand rather than a plea, strikes me uncharacteristically speechless. She's staring straight at me with serious, piercing eyes that cause discomfort to rise from the pit of my stomach. I look away from her hard brown eyes, my gaze landing on Dee. She's passing Lola off into Diesel's arms, shaking her head at her drunk friend. It's obvious that Dee is the – for lack of a better word – 'mother' of the group. She's a caretaker, not someone who must be taken care _of_.

But Tatiana is still staring me down, unrelenting and intense. So I humor her for the time being.

"I won't," I promise.

Finally, the spark of fire behind her eyes fades and she gives me a slow burning, sly grin. She looks almost cat-like. Introspective. I can tell there is something bubbling below the surface, begging to be released.

She wants to tell me something.

A gentle hand on my arm tears my eyes away from Tatiana's gaze and I spin around to confront my attacker.

The 'attacker' proves to be a very flushed looking Dee, who backs away slightly at the sight of my fighting stance beginning to form. A light blush spreads across her tanned cheeks as she mutters a small apology under her breath. My muscles relax from their rigid state and my hand slowly falls back to my side. I've spent so much of my time being vigilant that I almost harmed the same girl I've been assigned with protecting. An intrusive and unwelcome thought crosses my mind; maybe Father was right about how I should have left this case alone.

A light scowl settles on my face as I narrow my eyes at her.

"_Don't_ do that again."

Something changes in her face for a split second. I can see it; the muscles tensing, her mouth curling into a slight frown, her eyes lighting up with fire. She's about to snap back at me, I can tell. The witty remark is forming on her tongue already.

To my surprise, it never comes.

Instead, her face slowly relaxes back into an easy grin. The fire behind her eyes is extinguished and I can see them melting back into their normal, gentle hazel. I feel discomfort rise up in me.

I'm so used to getting some sort of reaction from her. Our game of cat and mouse can't work without one.

"It's getting late," she observes, her voice soft. "We should get back to your house."

I look around, taking in my surroundings as I realize just how late it is. The city is in a rare state of peaceful silence, aside from the chattering behind me. I expect that silence won't last long. The scum of Gotham come out to play during the night, and the East End is their favorite playground. It would be the perfect opportunity to pick Dee off without anyone noticing or really caring.

Except for me, that is.

I don't think twice about it when I grab her dainty hand, holding it in my far larger one. I don't look at her face to gauge her reaction, or even give _myself_ time to think about it as I pull her along towards the ladder at the edge of the building. I let go of her hand and gesture for her to climb down the ladder before me. From the confused crease in her brow, I can tell she doesn't expect any chivalrous behavior out of me. I simply roll my eyes and climb down after her.

The hooting and hollering from the roof above slowly fades away as we climb down the rusty, rickety ladder into the alleyway below. The only light we have comes from the streetlights a good 20 feet away on the other side of the street, but I can see the outline of Dee's face. It's hard to tell, but I think she's smiling.

I feel the corners of my mouth begin to pull upward inexplicably.

What the hell has gotten into me?

"We gotta get outta here," Dee insists as she grabs my hand, pulling me forward. "You don't wanna get stuck here this late on a Friday night."

I stare at her hand in mine for the second time tonight, but decide to leave it be.

"I think I can handle myself," I mutter as she pulls me out onto the dimly lit streets. A few petty thieves and drug addicts don't faze me. I could fight them off with both hands behind my back. I've done so before, in fact.

It was a long night.

"I don't care that you can handle yourself," she responds, her tone still light, but holding some mischief. "I don't want to have to explain to your dad why you came home with a shank buried in your stomach."

At that, I can't help but chuckle. It's still amusing how little she knows about me. I could snap the average mugger over my knee like a twig. I'm not too concerned about being 'shanked'.

Dee nudges me with her shoulder, her signature wicked grin painting her face. There's always a hint of mischief in her eyes, as well as in her smile. I've grown so used to it that I have to remind myself she'll be gone soon. Then whatever pseudo 'friendship' we have is over. She's out of my life forever.

I try to tell myself it doesn't matter to me.

"Didja have fun tonight?" she asks. "You weren't as much as a stiff as you usually are."

I snort at that.

"You don't know a thing about me," I insist. Now _she _snorts.

"I know enough about you to know that you're a regular stick in the mud. Admit it, Wayne. You enjoyed yourself among us East End sinners. Whether you want to admit it or not."

I curse myself when I feel the corners of my lips curl up into an amused grin.

"I admit to nothing."

Dee covers her mouth and giggles at me, laugh lines appearing at the corners of her eyes. It's a light, melodious sound that rings in my ears even after it ends. Something tugs at the center of my chest, like my heart is being pulled in all directions, as if it's on strings. This feeling is so strange, so foreign. But I find myself wanting to feel it again. I find myself wanting to hear her joyous laughter again. She's different when she's happy. Lighter… Pretty, almost. Maybe.

I turn my head over to her, opening my mouth to say the first thought the pops into my mind.

It's drowned out by the sound of gunfire.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed and weren't totally driven away by how late this chapter was. Sorry! As always, reviews are wonderful and they are the fuel that keeps this story running. So yeah, drop one of those, please. See you hopefully sooner than last time!**


	14. Chapter 13

**A/N: It's been so long since I've written anything! I missed it so much, especially this story. I just hope I still have readers to enjoy it!**

* * *

**Dee POV**

Mom and I moved to the East End when I was seven years old and as wide-eyed and bushy tailed as ever. We had lived in a relatively nice, quiet neighborhood before this; a place where the joggers always waved back and the locks always clicked shut at 10pm on the dot. My early childhood was full of chasing ice cream trucks and playing soccer in the mud with the neighborhood kids. I never knew a world outside of that. That little neighborhood nestled in the corner of Gotham _was _my world.

The East End was my wakeup call.

Gone were the days of childhood innocence and family picnics on the big hill in Gotham Park. Our move to the East End ushered in a new era of poverty and fear and staying up all night with a baseball bat to hit the rats that skittered across the apartment floor. My childhood was over.

So, I had two choices; grow up, or die.

I refuse to complain about 'having to grow up too fast', because when you actually experience it, it doesn't feel that way. It just feels like adapting to your surroundings, just as all strong animals do to survive in the wild. I was adapting in order to help myself and my perpetually weeping mother make it in this rough environment.

And when you've adapted to the East End, the gunshots become a common occurrence.

At first, they would terrify me. I would dive underneath the bed I shared with my mother, hugging my knees to my chest and shaking in terror. They never stopped after just one. When the gunshots started, they would continue in rapid succession, obviously the result of a gang fight or a drive by shooting. My mom was always too wrapped up in her own misery over having to leave my father behind, abandoning me to look to myself for comfort.

It wasn't that she was a bad mother. Not at all. She was just… preoccupied.

But just as the giraffes evolved to elongate their necks and reach their food source, I soon adjusted my senses to accommodate the sound of gunshots outside my window each night.

They became as natural as someone living in the country hearing crickets outside their window on hot summer nights. I slept soundly through them. I _fell_asleep to the sound of them. They became my new normal, almost like a comforting lullaby that my mother used to sing when she was still well. They reminded of where I was. I know I should have felt pretty shitty, being reminded that I was in such a hell hole, but I was with my mother. I still had my family. I had my friends. I had a sense of security I didn't have in my old home.

At this point, I didn't even flinch at gun fire anymore.

Even when it's coming from a few feet away.

So when Damian grabs my hand and yells for me to run as fast as I can, I struggle to process the panic in his voice. The fact that gunshots rang out through the cold night air is almost inconsequential to me. It takes me a few moments to grasp the reality of what's happening.

And when I do, I start sprinting.

Just because I've grown used to gunshots doesn't mean my survival instincts have waned.

My feet hit the pavement and I run faster than I have ever run before. Faster than I've run from police officers or truancy officers or any authority figures in general. I feel the burn begin in my lungs, traveling up to leave a bitter taste in my mouth. My fists clench in a –…

_Damian_…

His hand isn't in mine anymore.

I come to a screeching halt half-way down the road. The adrenaline surging through my veins screams at me to run. But my conscious mind is screaming at me that I can't leave Damian behind. I've seen evidence that he's more than capable of caring for himself, but the thought of throwing him to the wolves after all he's done to keep me safe is just repulsive to me. I've done more regrettable things in my life than I would like to admit. I am _not _letting leaving Damian to die. I don't need another regret on my hands.

Gathering up all my wavering courage, I sprint back towards the direction I came from. A deep ache starts in the pit of my stomach, climbing its way up to my chest. I can't tell if it's from the physical exertion, or the fear I feel when I see Damian battling with a man who is armed with a gun.

My survival instincts demand that I run back in the opposite direction and save my own skin. That's how I've survived thus far. Only caring about myself and my mom. The rest of the world be damned. I steer clear of trouble the best I can and take off at the first sign of confrontation. I learned a long time ago that this is often times not only the best, but the _only_ way to survive on the mean streets of Gotham.

Screw my instincts.

I see Damian turn to face me out of the corner of my eyes, but by the time my mind has registered it, I'm already crashing right into the gunman. He falls to the gravel with an 'oof', taking me down with him. Our legs tangle up together and my head hits the concrete. _Hard_.

Stars swim across my vision. My head pounds. The world seems to slow down for a few seconds and all I can think is,

'_This is it. I knocked my lights out. I'm going to go blind.'_

Hands grasp me by the front of the shirt and haul me up so fast that I feel as if my head is going to explode. It hurts too much to even fight back.

"Get behind me," Damian hisses in my ear. Relief floods my body when my vision clears. The fog begins to lift, despite the pounding in my head persisting. Damian pushes me back gently and begins to get into a fighting stance. His face is hard, but the gunman's face is harder. His gaze flickers from Damian down to me, and his expression instantly changes. It goes from pure hatred to something far more sinister. A slow burning grin spreads across his face, and I can see all his yellow teeth.

"You're not leaving with the girl," Damian growls lowly. "I suggest turning and walking away now while you still have feeling in both your legs."

The man's dark, beady eyes never leave me. I resist the urge to look away, despite the discomfort his gaze causes me. I don't want him to think I'm afraid. Even though I am. So much.

"What are you gonna do to stop me, Wayne?" he asked mockingly. "You're just a pretty boy with a few lucky moves."

Damian smirks, and I resist the urge to smack him. His arrogance is going to get him killed one day, and I just hope I won't be around to witness it.

"If you really believe that, then come at me," Damian challenges. "I should be easy to take down."

My breath catches in my throat when I see the smile on the gunman's face widen, his eyes twinkling with excitement. If this weren't a life or death situation, I'd be screaming a slew of obscenities at Damian. Right now, I'm too preoccupied with formulating some sort of escape plan.

The man lunges at Damian with alarming speed, and I let out a small scream before jumping back. I can only watch in horror, frozen in my spot, as Damian wrestles him to the ground and the two grapple for the gun. My legs tingle the way they do when I'm preparing to sprint. A cagey, anxious feeling fills me, settling like a heavy weight in my chest. My body and mind are demanding that I run, and _now_.

_Save yourself, Dee. Save yourself. Damian can get out of this without you. Run and live another day._

And I do run.

Right into the fight.

I lunge right between Damian and the man, who has his gun pointed at Damian's stomach. My every motion is done without thought. My sympathetic nervous system is kicking in, demanding I choose either fight or flight. And like usual, my idiotic body decided on fight. I reach out and make a grab for the gun. Damian grabs me around the hips, trying to pull me back, while the man and I both grapple for control.

My fingers wrap around and cool barrel of the gun and frantically pull it towards me. If I can just get the man's grip to loosen, I can take his gun from him. For a split second, I think I'm succeeding.

Until I hear the gun go off.

Damian's shouts echo in my ear, but they sound so far away. Some sort of morbid curiosity makes my eyes drift down to my stomach. I see the blood spreading across my shirt, I register the fact that I've been hit, but I don't feel the pain. I can't feel the pain. A voice in the back of my mind tells me that the pain message stopped at my spinal cord because my brain decided it was too much to deal with, but that little voice is pushed aside to make way for the sounds of flesh being hit. My peripheral vision catches sight of the gunman falling to the gravel.

"Dee? _Dee?!_"

My body goes cold.

And I know how cliché that phrase is, but that's the only way to describe what I'm feeling – I can feel myself going cold. It's like my body temperature dropped at least 10 degrees in the span of a few minutes.

My eyelids feel heavy, and I can't stop them from fluttering closed.

* * *

"_Dee Dee?"_

_I looked down at Gracie as she clung to my side. Her tone was lazy, languid, and her eyes were partially closed with grogginess. This was normally around the time she woke up from her afternoon nap. I pet down her wild mop of curly blonde hair as best as I could and gathered her closer to me. There wasn't much room, squished together against the foot of the bed._

"_Yes, Gracie Girl?" I asked in a soft voice, tickling her stomach. She giggled and tried to wiggle away, but I hauled her back onto my lap, wrapping my arms around her and hugging her tightly. Her giggles soon died down and she rested her head on my shoulder._

"_Why is Momma so sad?"_

_I tensed up. It was a question I was never prepared to answer, no matter how many times she asked it. I wanted to keep her innocence intact as much as I could, even if I knew the East End would destroy it soon enough. She deserved a few good years, like the ones I got before we moved into this run down, one-bedroom apartment. She deserved a better life._

_As I opened my mouth to give her some sort of excuse, the sounds of Mom retching in the bathroom next to us became audible. I pull Gracie closer to me, as if I could press her close enough to my chest so she could only hear my heart and not the gasps of breath our mother took in between heaves._

"_I've told you before, Gracie Girl, it's the baby in her belly making her act all weird," I explained. Of course I left out the fact that our new sibling's father had split on her and taken his drug supply with him. I left out the fact that we barely had enough money to support our little family of three as is. I left out all the reasons why I _knew _Mom was crying hysterically over a toilet bowl._

_This was my cross to bear, not my baby sister's._

_At the mention of her soon to be baby sibling, Gracie's eyes brightened. All previous worries were instantly forgotten. It was amazing to me how quickly Gracie could jump emotions. One second she could be crying, the next she would be smiling and giggling. It was unpredictable, and sometimes inconvenient, but it was what made her wonderful._

"_Do ya think the baby's gonna be a boy or a girl?" she asked, bouncing excitedly on my lap. I giggled at her enthusiasm and obliviousness to how bad this pregnancy was for all of us. But I couldn't help it; her excitement was infectious._

"_I'm hoping for a baby brother. What about you?"_

_Gracie wrinkled her nose._

"_Boys are icky," she replied with a shudder. _

_I chuckled and gave her a squeeze. I wished I could be as excited about this baby as she was, but I already saw it as a liability._

_I wasn't ready to raise another sibling._

* * *

As soon as my eyes flutter open, a harsh light makes them squeeze shut again. The light is so strong it seems to burn through my eyelids. My head is pounding. My body aches. My thoughts are weighed down by a heavy fog I can't seem to clear.

"… shouldn't… brought her here…"

I can register a voice, but it sounds foggy somehow. Like someone is speaking to me underwater. I strain my ears to hear it more clearly. Even such a simple task saps what little energy I have left.

"… dying… no choice…"

I lift my body up slightly with the intention of getting off this flat surface I'm laying on and getting onto my feet, but an intense pain grows in my stomach and shoots up my spine, causing me to plummet back down. A groan escapes my lips and my eyes shoot open.

I see the light.

For a split second, I wonder if this is the 'light at the end of the tunnel' people talk about. But then I reason with myself that it can't be. I'm not dead. If I was dead, I wouldn't be seeing the light of Heaven. I would be seeing the fires of Hell.

No, I must still be alive.

I gather up all my remaining strength and tilt my head to the side so I can examine my surroundings.

I'm in a cave.

But I'm not just among a collection of stalactites. The cave has obviously been furnished and in use. A computer set up larger than my room back home sits on the far end nearly out of my sight. Several glass display cases are spread out a bit farther away from that. Cars and bikes galore are neatly lined up on platforms, like they're ready to be driven out at a moment's notice.

Finally, my eyes flit over to something I recognize – or rather, some_one_.

_Damian._

Relief hits me like a freight train, and it's only then I realize how scared I really was. There's something comforting about Damian's presence. I know I'll be okay. A small, exhausted smile makes its way to my lips.

Then I see the large shadow towering over him.

My eyes slowly travel up the padded armor, the long flowing cape, the pointed cowl.

I've spent years trying to avoid seeing the Bat emblem up close and personal.

Now here he is, right in front of me.

"Damian…?" I croak out. A paralyzing fear of the unknown envelopes me. Damian can only give me a bashful look. It's so unlike him, it's almost like looking at someone else entirely. I don't know how he's not as freaked out at seeing Batman as I am. I don't know how he and Batman are standing side by side like old friends. I don't know why he took me here instead of a hospital.

But I do.

I just don't want to face it.

"You're… Robin?"

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**A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and some glimpses into Dee's past. Yes, she has finally found out the big secret!**

**As always, reviews, follows, and favorites are welcome and I hope to see you again next time! :)**


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